


Helene Lysandra

by Sunnyflower20



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fem!Harry, Female Harry Potter, Gen, Hogwarts, Manipulative Albus Dumbledore, Potter Family, Ravenclaw, Seer!Ron, Smart!Harry, tradition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2019-06-28 19:35:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyflower20/pseuds/Sunnyflower20
Summary: In the perfectly normal neighbourhood of Little Whinging, Surrey, there was a perfectly normal street. Privet Drive was home to many well-to-do, upstanding families. There were no residents of Privet Drive prouder of this semblance of normalcy than the Dursley family. The only blight to the Dursley's happiness was their niece: Helen Potter, who was as abnormal as one could be.





	1. Chapter 1

              In the perfectly normal neighbourhood of Little Whinging, Surrey, there was a perfectly normal street. Privet Drive was home to many well-to-do, upstanding families. Redbrick houses and polished cars lined the pavement with unnerving similarity. The sun rose on manicured front lawns and set just the same.

There were no residents of Privet Drive prouder of this semblance of normalcy than the Dursley family. Vernon and Petunia Dursley had worked very hard to maintain this image. Vernon worked at a large company, Grunnings, that sold drills and other equipment. Petunia was a housewife. She was on the PTA committee, took care of their son – Dudley – was a proud member of the neighbourhood book club, and made sure that dinner was on the table the moment her rather large husband stepped through the door. The only blight to the Dursley’s happiness was their niece, Helen Potter.

Helen was the daughter of Petunia’s sister; who had unfortunately died when the girl was very young. The Dursleys had discovered Helen left on their doorstep when she was barely fifteen months old. Begrudgingly, they had taken the girl in. This was perhaps the Dursley’s worst fear. Petunia had not spoken to her sister for several years prior to her death, and thus was very angry and frightened. For Helen was the farthest thing from what the Dursley’s considered to be normal, as possible. Helen Potter was a witch.

 As her mother and father before her, magic flowed strongly in her veins. In the hidden magical world of Great Britain, Potter was a revered name and Helen chief among them. For well over two decades a war had ravaged the magical world in secret. Mysterious disappearances, unexplainable deaths, property destruction, and strange weather patterns being the only clue non-magical people had. Helen’s parents and grandparents had fought viciously during the war. Only at the very end were her parents – Lily and James – forced to go into hiding to protect their daughter. However, they were betrayed by someone they had considered a friend. Their enemy, known as Voldemort, hunted them down personally and slaughtered them as they tried to protect their only child. However, when Voldemort turned his wand upon the defenceless child, something nobody anticipated possible happened. The child survived.

Where grown witches and wizards capable of bending the very laws of nature to their whim had faced him and fell, Helen Potter lived. Not only did she live, but somehow in the backlash of the killing curse, Voldemort’s body was destroyed. With the sacrifice of the Potter family, Voldemort’s forces were scattered and easily subdued, and the Blood War was over. Helen Potter became hailed as an icon of the Light and known as The-Girl-Who-Lived across continents.

Not that Helen knew any of this of course. Under the Dursley’s strict rules and fear, the young girl grew up not knowing that magic even existed. The very word was banned from No. 4 Privet Drive. She grew up not knowing that she was a witch, or of the war that had taken her family from her so cruelly. Every instance of accidental magic she displayed was punished; every chance of bettering herself pushed down. Unstable, they told the neighbours. A troublemaker. She’ll be a drunk low-life just like her parents, Petunia would sigh fretfully to the other society wives as they cooed over how brave she was for taking that odd Potter girl in.

Helen was not as stupid as the Dursleys liked to tell everyone. She was simply quiet and quite frankly, insatiably curious. Rule number one of living with the Dursley’s however was ‘don’t ask questions’. So, she took her questions somewhere she could find trustworthy information: the public library. Stacks of books just waiting for her eager young mind to devour. Unfortunately, she could not have a library card; the Dursleys would never allow her to bring books back. Helen feared that even if she did, the books would not survive her cousin Dudley’s ham-like hands. Besides, the sheer amount of books Helen wanted to keep would not fit in the cupboard-under-the-stairs; her bed barely fit as it was.

School meant nothing to Helen. The teachers had never listened to her and Dudley and his gang made sure that her days were a living nightmare second only to living with the Dursleys’. Her only sanctuary was the library. She seriously doubted that Dudley even knew the place existed. While dumbing down her scores at school was an easy way to keep the Dursleys off her back, Helen kept copious notes on her own studies at the library. The nice librarian, though distant, did allow her to keep her notebooks in a plastic box behind the reception desk.

Research was a key aspect of Helen’s time at the library. While the green-eyed girl’s reputation was troublesome, she was more intelligent than even her fans in the magical world had thought possible. Helen knew she was different. Odd things happened around her too often to be dismissed easily. Especially with her Aunt and Uncle’s irrational fear of any such incident. Once, when she was very little, Aunt Petunia had tried to force her to wear a horrible brown and orange jumper that Dudley had grown out of. As she tried to force it over her niece’s head, the jumper caught fire. Helen spent the entire weekend in her cupboard as punishment. Another time, Dudley and his gang were chasing her through the playground when suddenly, she was on the roof. The school had to call the fire department to help get her down and the headteacher had had strict words with Aunt Petunia. That incident got her a week in the cupboard and limited food privileges.

Armed with the certainty of her uniqueness, Helen did what she did best. She read. Every book she could get her hands on – from biology textbooks to compendiums on religious meditation. Was her condition genetic? A blend of chromosomes never seen before? A mutation? Did her parents have the same ability before they died? But perhaps most important of all the questions Helen sought answers for, was this – could she control it?

From the age of six to ten, she tried to direct this strange ability of hers and found with surprise and no small amount of delight, that it came quite easily. Some things easier than others, but with a bit of concentration, Helen could do pretty much anything. Stars were easy; they seemed to blend into their constellations, showing her their secrets. Plants were a bit trickier, but with some persuasion she could convince the Dursley’s shrubbery to grow quite nicely. Not that that stopped her from trying. Her notebooks ranged from biology to astronomy to local legends. There was nothing that Helen did not like to read.

 

*    *    *

 

It was in the summer of the year that Helen would turn eleven that everything changed. A month or so prior, Mrs Figg – the batty neighbour that usually babysat Helen – had broken her leg and the Dursley’s had been forced to take Helen with them to the zoo. There, she had discovered that she could talk to snakes. No other animals she found to her great disappointment, but still very exciting. As Mrs Figg’s leg was still broken, Aunt Petunia was once again forced to bring Helen along with her and Dudley into London for the day. It was just after lunch, as Aunt Petunia forged ahead with Dudley, that something caught Helen’s interest. There was a pub standing where before there had been nothing.

Helen stopped in the middle of the street. She watched, head tilted and curious, as people seemed to swerve around the pub as if it did not exist. Somewhere ahead of her, her aunt and cousin had stopped to peer into a shop window. A grimy sign hung above the pub: _The Leaky Cauldron_. Cautiously, Helen stepped down off the curb. A bubble of clear street stood in front of the pub. Nobody seemed to notice that they all walked the exact same path around it. She took a deep breath as she teetered on the edge of this patch of uncluttered pavement. Helen threw herself over the invisible line. Nothing happened. Letting go of her breath, she turned around slowly. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything. She waved one tiny hand. Nothing. It was as if they could not see her – _just like they could not see the pub_. Helen’s heart thudded in her chest. With a quick glace back, she practically leapt at the entrance to the pub.

Inside, the pub was dark and the low light that managed to creep through dusty windows was backlit by the dull glow of orange lamps. Wooden tables with rough-hewn chairs were scattered around with clusters of candles congregating in the middle. The odd person was strewn around the larger-than-average interior. Intently, Helen drank in everything around her. Why – that man in the corner was floating his book! Another patron was pouring themselves a pot of tea without even touching the teapot. An epiphany overcame the young girl that blew everything she knew out of the water – these people were just like her. Slinking her way to a pillar, Helen moulded herself to it as she continued to observe. One woman appeared to be wearing what looked like a pointed hat. Someone else was showing off a suspended solar system that moved on its own. Several of them even seemed to be wearing dresses. Helen squinted. No, not dresses – robes. All in different colours and cuts, though very distinctly robes. Tapping a finger against the pillar, the young Potter’s mind raced. A group of people that could do extraordinary things, robes – and the woman with the hat. Helen swivelled around to look again. The woman’s hat was quite distinct with its pointed top and wide brim; a witch’s hat. Helen had seen several at Halloween though she had never been allowed to participate.

Magic. What she could do was magic. The revelation hit Helen like a freight train. Excitement curled in her gut and everything in her life suddenly clicked into place. The Dursley’s fear suddenly took on a whole new outlook. Had her parents had magic too? Surely there was more than simply this magical pub. With little thought, Helen strode back towards her family.

Tugging insistently on Aunt Petunia’s peacoat, she waited patiently as her Aunt turned sharply towards her and pursed her lips.

“What do you want?” Aunt Petunia snapped waspishly. Dudley ignored them as he sucked greedily on his lollipop.

“I just wanted to say that I’m not going back with you Aunt Petunia.” Helen said to her Aunt’s great befuddlement. Blinking, Petunia Dursley looked around her to see if she could spot what had brought around this great change in her niece. As a non-magical, Petunia could not see the pub though she recognised the street. Years of watching her own sister disappear somewhere on this street into a world she could not follow had left Petunia with a bitter and hateful heart. Looking down at her too-small niece with Lily’s eyes, Petunia could not muster up the decency to care what happened to her sister’s daughter.

“Go then.” Petunia said coldly before gathering her son and quickly disappearing around the corner.

Used to such treatment, Helen though nothing of it as she skipped happily back inside. The top of her head was barely level with the bar countertop. Stained and gouged, the dark wood emitted a heady scent of something bittersweet. After several minutes of fruitlessly trying to catch the barkeeps attention, Helen pulled herself up onto one of the bar stools with great effort. Flushed from the effort, she turned her attention back to the man behind the bar. He had a humpback and his apron was grimy yet his smile wide and his eyes crinkled kindly when they saw her.

“Well ‘ello there. What can I do for ya today?” the barkeep asked. Subconsciously, Helen took a deep whiff. Spiced alcohol and tarnish made her blink rapidly.

“Magic.” She said decisively. “Magic is real.”

The barkeep paused in his duties and took in the young girl before him. The round wire-frames on her nose were barely held together by tape; her shirt hem was frayed and hung loose enough to show her collarbone practically jutting out of paper-thin brown skin. It was only after seeing these disconcerting things that the barkeeps eyes jumped to her forehead. Eyes widening, he drank in the sight of a lightning-white scar that crackled across the left side of her forehead and split her eyebrow in half. Partially hidden by her thick raven fringe, it was no wonder he did not see it at first. Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong, the barkeep thought.

Squaring his shoulders, the barkeep smiled encouragingly and leaned forwards.

“Yes, yes, it is little miss.” He swallowed back the horrible knowledge that this girl, _this one in particular,_ should have known about magic. The smile that bloomed across her face almost made it worth it, but Tom the barkeep knew he had to help correct what had happened.

“There’s more though.”

“More?” Helen breathed as she slipped from the barstool and followed the barkeeps beckoning wave. He led her to a small alcove where there was nothing more than a few weeds and a couple of bins. With a wink, the barkeep produced a thin stick from his sleeve. Curious, Helen watched as he tapped the stick – wand, stave, thing – against a brick in the bare wall in front of them. It began to wiggle until the wall began to peel back to reveal an archway. Helen’s mouth fell open. An entire street was hidden inside London. All sorts of people in robes and pointy hats with their own sticks breezed from shop to shop as if their contents were perfectly normal. Clapping a hand on her shoulder, Tom smiled gummily.

“Welcome ta Diagon Alley. Now, I’d suggest ya go to Gringotts first. Tis a bank – tha’ big white building there. They’ll tell ya everything ya need ta know. Jus’ give ‘em yer name.” He pointed at perhaps the largest building on the street. It was not exactly hard to miss. At least two stories higher than any other building in the Alley, Gringotts seemed to be made entirely of a shiny white stone that was almost blinding in the afternoon sun.

“Thank you, sir.” Helen said. With a quick pat on the shoulder, she was off.

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

Gringotts was much larger up close. Marbled pillars ensconced the steps that led into the bank. Guarded on each side by strange creatures in red livery, the glass-fronted doors were very intimidating. Hesitantly, Helen pushed through them only to be met with a second set of doors. Here, a plaque shone brightly in the lamplight:

 

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed_

_For those who take, but do not earn_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn_

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

These people were clearly not to be crossed. They must take their security very seriously, Helen mused, which gave her some comfort. If the bank was as secure as the poem suggested, then surely, they could help her.

Stepping onto the main floor of the bank, Helen watched in wonder. Booths lined what appeared to be a stately marble chamber, and more of the same creatures outside the bank sat at these desks. Lines of people lingered in front of several of these counters, waiting their turn to be seen. Taking a deep breath, Helen let her green gaze wander over the chamber. Carefully, she picked her way to the teller with the shortest line.

Idly, Helen joined the queue; shuffling forwards every few minutes as people conducted their business and left. She could not help it, but her eyes were constantly drawn to the strange creatures that ran the bank. Most of the booths were occupied but had no customers. One of these people even seemed to be examining a ruby the size of her fist! So occupied with her inspection of the bank floor, Helen did not realise that the person in front of her had left. A polite cough broke her reverie. Flushed, she hurried forwards. Behind the desk, the creature simply raised an eyebrow before reaching for a quill and parchment.

“Name.” he said brusquely, the deep tenor of his voice carrying in the marble chamber. The desk was very high. Craning her neck to see over the countertop, Helen tilted on her tiptoes.

“Er, Helen Potter.” She said. The creature froze. Slowly, and very deliberately, he placed his quill back in its inkpot. The staffed booths either side of them stopped to stare at the young girl as well. Frowning, the creature swept black eyes over the young girl more critically before lingering on her scar. Nervously, Helen swallowed.

“I was, I was told that you could help me.” She said almost apologetically. The creature’s eyes narrowed before inclining his head slightly.

“Of course, Heir Potter. The goblins of Gringotts would be happy to assist.” The goblin – for now she knew what these people were – jumped down from his booth and walked around to meet her. Owlishly, Helen blinked as the goblin bowed his head once more before sweeping a hand to the side.

“If you would follow me.” It was not really a request, but Helen nodded anyway. Turning swiftly, her guide marched through a double door with the young girl dogging his heels. Though small, for none of the goblins she had seen seemed to be any more than a head taller than herself, he walked quickly through a spacious hallway lined with doors. She was not sure how many they passed or indeed even how many corners they turned – left or right, some hallways even seemed to slope downwards before they eventually stopped outside a door. This door was no different to any of the other doors. Lacquered black with a round brass doorknob and a shiny, if weathered looking plaque nailed to its front. Helen had only enough time to read the words _Potter Account Manager_ before her guide knocked once and opened the door.

“Heir Potter here to see you, sir.” He bowed his head once more before spinning sharply back the way he came. Dazed, Helen stepped into the office. It was not particularly small nor large. A rather comfortably sized desk with two chairs before it occupied the far-right wall. Neatly stacked shelves and filing cabinets full of records and important documents lined the rest. There was even a tastefully modern painting hanging opposite the door.

Carefully, Helen closed the door behind her and took a seat. The goblin opposite her was far older than her guide. His thick eyebrows were frosted white and his leathery face wrinkled. Silently, he observed the girl with what looked like a thick monocle over a beady eye.

“I have been waiting a long time for you Heir Potter.” The goblin said evenly. Helen fidgeted in her seat. Pulling nervously on the hem of her shirt, she tried to gather her thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” she started, licking her lips. Bravely, she raised her chin so that she could meet him eye-to-eye. “I didn’t even know magic was real until today.”

The goblins’ brow furrowed. Leaning back in his seat, he laced his fingers together and hummed discontentedly.

“Oh?” he said questioningly. His voice was gravelly and somehow even deeper than the previous goblin. Helen nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes. The pub owner said that if I came here, the bank could help me.”

“Well that is certainly true Heir Potter.” Her account manager placed a thick folder on the desk and cleared his throat. With his long, sharp fingers, he pushed several pieces of thick yellow parchment towards her. Shuffling in her seat, Helen took the first page. Handwritten, the page was cramped with hundreds of lines of tiny, looped writing.

“We shall start with the basics. My name is Clarok and I have been the Potter Account Manager for over sixty years.” Clarok watched the young girl with sharp eyes. The girl was too small; her face gaunt and clothes clearly meant for someone twice her size. It was her face though that caught Clarok’s attention. Evidently, the young Potter heir was very intelligent.

“Here, the Potter’s are what is considered a Founding Family in the magical world.” He said. Helen looked up at him. Blinking away the after-image of black ink, she studied the goblin in front of her.

“Founding Family?” she asked curiously. Clarok smirked and pushed another document towards her eager hands. For several seconds, there was silence as she tried to read.

“This isn’t English.” Helen said eventually, her green eyes darting across the page hungrily.

“No, it is in Latin. That there document is an original copy of the Statute of Secrecy, that was declared by the then King Athelstan in the year 931 C.E., that declares the beginning of the separation between the magical and non-magical worlds of what later became known as Great Britain. It was co-signed by the most powerful and influential magical families of the time – of which the Potters’ were one.”

            Helen was not sure what the Statute of Secrecy was, but it sounded important. Not only that, but her family had a hand in making it real. Pride fluttered in her chest and she clutched the statute close to her chest.

“So, this makes them a Founding Family?” she asked. Clarok tapped a sharp nail against the polished oak desktop.

“This makes you the sole heir of the most high-ranked Family in magical Britain.” He was becoming very amused at the young girl’s look of shock. Though, it did rankle his professional pride that he had to explain this at all. The Potter heir should have grown up knowing all of this and more.

“Once you come of age, you will have complete access to all monetary vaults, parliamentary seats and able to claim all titles.” Clarok barked as he started organising the folder before. “Until that time, you will receive yearly bank statements concerning the main Potter Vaults, access to a Trust Vault set up by your parents including monthly statements, and unfettered access to all Potter lands and properties.”

It was a lot of information to take in. Helen had not even turned eleven yet.

“I haven’t had any monthly statements.” It was the only thing she could think of to say. Clarok’s eyes narrowed. He had suspected as such.

“Then I must offer you Gringotts deepest apologies Heir Potter. We will endeavour to ensure that you receive such information from this point on.” Clarok inclined his head.

Overwhelmed, she turned once more to the Statute of Secrecy. The parchment was ragged along its edge and stiff, yet it was in incredible condition for such an old article. It could only have been done with magic, she concluded. Concentrating, Helen narrowed her eyes at the document. Slowly, a thin layer of yellow dust shimmered into existence. It hovered around the entire article; protecting it from anything that may harm the ancient paper. Clarok watched her work with sharp eyes. He was impressed with what he saw. Not only had the young heir managed to feel the magic surrounding the document, but also forced it into visible sight – if only for a short while. Clearing his throat, the Potter Account Manager caught her attention once more.

“There are many expectations and social obligations that affect you – not only as an heir, but as a Potter. However, I am not the person to teach you such things.” Clarok glowered and steepled his fingers. “I would suggest that you hire a house-elf or a tutor. Perhaps get in contact with your family solicitor.”

Helen frowned. Reluctantly, she handed back the copy of the Statute of Secrecy and watched as her account manager carefully placed it back in the folder.

“House-elves?” she asked unsurely. If goblins had expressive facial expressions discernible by humans, then Helen would have recognised the patented look of anger at her upbringing that would follow her for the rest of her life. Briskly, Clarok found a spare piece of parchment and quickly scribbled something along the top. Ripping it off, he handed it to the confused young girl.

“Yes, normally the Potter family would have several house-elves to serve them. However, I am not sure of the condition of your ancestral home. I would suggest finding a place to stay then contacting your solicitor.” Clarok tapped a fingernail on the desk pointedly. Hastily, Helen scanned the paper. Written in sharp lettering were the words, _Renshaw and Sons._ Nodding her head, she thanked her account manager. Sniffing, Clarok closed the thick file in front of him and reached for a small brass bell on the wall. Fascinated, Helen watched as it rang three times before falling silent with a tinkling shudder.

“Now, here are the basics on your family vaults. I would suggest another meeting in a months time Heir Potter.” Clarok said briskly as there was a knock at the door. As he barked for them to come in, he stood up and Helen hastened to comply. Pushing the folder across the desk, Clarok nodded once at the younger goblin who waited in the doorway.

“Griphook here will take you to your Trust Vault and help guide you on the appropriate amount needed for accommodations.”

With little fanfare, Helen was ushered impatiently out of the office and back down the corridor. She had barely had enough time to grab the folder, she thought bemusedly. Consumed by what had just transpired, she did not notice as the clean hallways melted into rough-hewn caverns. Their footsteps echoed in the massive space. Eventually they came across what Helen could only consider a rollercoaster. A mining cart that sat upon steel tracks and disappeared into the muggy darkness. Securing a torch to the front of the cart, Griphook stepped aside slightly.

“Please enter the vehicle.” He said crisply. Once seated, Griphook spared her only one glance before pushing a lever. Now, Helen had never been on a rollercoaster before, but if they were anything like the Gringotts carts then she loved them. The cart seemed to have only one speed; whether that was around corners or at a straight drop did not seem to matter. The cart rushed by so fast her glasses were little protection against the wind. As they descended further into the bowels of the bank, Helen could not stop herself from leaning over the edge to see how far below the floor was. Only when a flash of fire raced past her eyes did she sit back up again.

Eventually, they cart began to slow before screeching to a stop. On wobbly legs, Helen stepped out of the cart with a wide grin. Griphook seemed amused. With little fanfare, he marched up to a vault door and produced a key. Briskly he twisted the key and opened the door. Helen’s jaw dropped. Piles of gold, silver, and bronze stood in stacks as high as the ceiling. Stepping inside, she craned her head to see how far up they went. Behind her, Griphook cleared his throat. With a smart snap of his wrist, he held out the small bronze key.

“This is charmed to be linked directly to your Trust Vault Heir Potter.” He said. “You simply need to give this key to a seller and they will make an impression of it. The bank will be notified, and the money transferred.”

Curious, Helen turned the key over. It was small, with a geometric head. Warm to the touch, the bronze was obviously crafted with care. The system seemed to work much like a credit card, for which she was thankful. She was not sure she could carry all the money she would need for the summer. Pocketing the key, she turned back to her vault. Upon closer inspection, se recognised none of the coins.

“What are these?” she asked, turning over a gold coin the size of a hubcap. What could only be considered a grimace crossed the goblin’s face.

“That is a galleon. It is the highest form of magical currency. The silver ones are sickles and the bronze knuts. There are seventeen sickles to a galleon, and twenty-nine knuts to a sickle.” He said simply. Frowning slightly, Helen wondered at the such odd numbers before dismissing it. Repeating the values in her head, she quickly stuffed her pockets full of coins. Pleased that for once her too-large clothes were coming in handy, she tucked the folder back under her arm before exiting the vault.

The trip back up to the surface seemed much shorter. Griphook marched her to the main floor. There, he bowed before exiting quickly. Helen took no notice as she happily headed for the exit. While she thought nothing of it, the bank had become extremely crowded. People hovered together excitedly as they pushed forwards towards the back of the bank. This made it very easy for Helen to slip around them and out into the Alley. She bumbled along quite happily, never even thinking that the steady stream of people entering the bank but not leaving could be because of her.


	2. Chapter 2

Her fame in the magical world escaped Helen for two more days. The barkeep of the _Leaky Cauldron_ , Tom, shielded her as best he could. This was made easier as she had paid for a room for the rest of the summer. Curious as she was though, it was not long before Helen found out. It was her fourth day in Diagon Alley. Tom greeted her happily as she came down for breakfast (scrambled egg on toast with cranberry juice). She liked Tom. He had been kind to her and made sure she was safe. It was why she had decided to always eat breakfast at the bar; so she could keep him company.

 Never before had she been given the luxury of choosing what she wanted to eat, or indeed even a full night’s sleep. Staying at _The Leaky Cauldron_ however granted Helen more freedom than she could have thought possible. Her room was bigger than even Dudley’s had been. Most of the space was taken up by the large bed, but a desk had been stashed beneath the window overlooking Charing Cross, and the fireplace had a silver filigree mirror hanging above it. She even had her own bathroom with all the necessities; an almost box-like room tiled in gleaming black and white and ornate taps.

Every morning, when rationality returned, and her heart stopped thundering, she would roll out of the mass of pillows and duvets in her king-sized bed (it felt more like universe-sized to the small girl) and head on down. Owls would arrive like clockwork with the post. Tom had a subscription to every daily newspaper that there was. Although this had startled Helen at first, she had taken it upon herself to hand out the newspapers. Despite being able to do it much quicker with magic, Tom let her help.

That morning, there was a headline in the most popular newspaper, _The Daily Prophet_ , that caught her eye: _DEATH EATER TRIALS: THE SECOND WAVE._ Curious, she unfolded the newspaper:

_While many remember the devastation caused in the Blood War by the group known as the Death Eaters, not all will know that many did not receive trial. Yes that’s right dear readers, people were sent to Azkaban without a trial! This oversight by the previous administration was caught by none other than the Deputy Head of the DMLE, Rufus Scrimgeour._

_“This is a travesty,” Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, enthused righteously. “How do we know that good, upstanding citizens who were simply under the imperius have suffered these long years in Azkaban? We shall be holding trials immediately.”_

_Although frightened by this revelation, this reporter is confident that the current Ministry will not stand for such injustice. What will be uncovered dear readers? Have the innocent really languished away in Azkaban for over a decade? Of course, this brings a much more horrifying thought to mind – what if not all the Death Eaters escaped justice? What of the Potters, we must ask. Were all those involved in the horrors of that night truly caught? If the Death Eaters and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named are capable of wiping out such a prominent family, what’s to say they won’t do it again?_

 

The article continued on in the same simpering tone but none of it registered in Helen’s mind. Sometimes she hated wanting to know everything. Pushing away her half-eaten plate, her brow furrowed. What had the article meant, wiped out? Miserably, she traced figures in the condensation of her glass. How had her parents died? It obviously was not drunk in a car crash like Aunt Petunia had said. What did she know about her family? Questions raced around her head so fast Helen felt ill.

Puttering around behind the bar, Tom noticed the despondent look of his youngest patron, and frowned. Tucking a cloth in the front pocket of his apron, he eased a smile across his face and hobbled over.

“Somethin’ wron’ with ya toast?” he asked breezily. Startled, Helen looked up and shook her head vigorously.

“No, its great thank you.” She insisted and tried to smile. Tom raised an eyebrow disbelievingly and hummed.

“But?” he prompted. Someone yelled for a drink and Tom sent her a pointed look before disappearing. Helen heaved a sigh. Feeling decidedly more wretched than when she had woken up, she twisted her hands agitatedly in her shirt. Despite having her own money, Helen had been far too nervous to spend any except at _The Leaky Cauldron_. She still wore Dudley’s cast offs. Luckily, she was able to due to the instant-wash basket in her room. That didn’t stop them from becoming even more threadbare though. Her shirt especially was riddled with holes along the broken hem. Far too used to such clothing to be embarrassed, she saw no need to buy new ones.

Planting his hands on the counter, Tom smiled kindly.

“Now, ya gonna say what’s botherin’ ya?” he asked gently. Helen wrestled with herself for a minute before sighing. With an embarrassed flush spreading up her neck, she cautiously pushed the newspaper towards him. Frowning, Tom unfolded the paper. It did not take long for the problem to become clear. Sighing, he folded the paper and pushed it decisively away.

“Oh.” He said, tapping a finger nervously on the wooden countertop.

“Do ya know anythin’ about tha night?”

Helen fidgeted in her seat; her hands clenching and unclenching in her shirt.

“Do you,” she breather in deeply, her chest aching familiarly, “do you mean the night my parents died?”

Tom had never wanted to be the one to tell her. He never should have had too, but he was determined to do it correctly. With a wave of his hand, a steaming mug of hot chocolate appeared. After making sure she had taken a good gulp, Tom straightened as much as he could.

“Well, just ta warn ya, everyone knows this story.” Tom scratched his chin. “Bit of a legen’ in the magical world. People think yer a bit of a celebrity, so you gotta be careful, alrigh’?”

Helen nodded quickly at the serious look Tom levelled at her. Nervous, she gulped down more of the cocoa.

“Alrigh’ so, there was this war ya see. A terrible one. Many people died. Yer parents fought in the war – on the front line in fact.” Tom said it as if she should be proud, and Helen was. Her parents must have been very brave if everyone knew of them.

“They were so high up in the war effort, tha eventually they caught the attention of You-Know-Who.” Tom finished in a whisper, his eyes darting cautiously around the room. Entranced by the gruesome tale, Helen did not notice as she leant closer to the bar.

“You-Know-Who?” she asked hesitantly. Tom held a finger to his lips.

“The Dark Lord,” he shuddered slightly. “He started the war – said some were not worthy of practising magic. Rubbish a’course. When they had ya, yer parents went into hidin’ because he was looking for ‘em.”

Helen had a terrible feeling in her gut. There was really only one way this story could go, but she listened dutifully anyway.

“- well one nigh’ he found ya. Yer mum and dad put up a good fight, but nobody survived when You-Know-Who decided ta kill ‘em.” Tom sighed wearily. He seemed to have aged a decade, but that was nothing compared to how Helen felt. Her mouth was dry, and no amount of hot chocolate seemed to soothe her.

“But tha’s where things got tricky see,” Tom shot her a small half-smile; his eyes pitying. “because ya survived; ain’t no one done that before. Not only did ya live, but You-Know-Who disa’ered. So, to some yer a hero who killed ‘im and ended tha war.”

Why had she lived? Surely someone must know, Helen determined, and if not, then she would find out. Her mug was empty. Fiddling with her shirt hem, she let her raven hair cascade across her face; the loose bun unravelling around her shoulders. Seeing as she was distracted, Tom easily switched out the remainder of her breakfast for a bowl of full-fat yoghurt with fruit and honey. He had eyes – he was quick to notice the hollow cheeks, baggy clothes and taped glasses of his youngest patron. Gently, he encouraged her to eat.

“What ya thinkin’?” he asked softly. Swallowing her mouthful, Helen blinked. Emerald green eyes shone despondently from behind silver wire-frames. Tiredness radiated from her sloped shoulders to how her head hung low.

“I think,” she started slowly, “I think I want to know You-Know-Who’s name.”

Tom shuddered. His grip tightened on the counter before he took a hold of himself. If anyone deserved to know, she did.

“Alrigh’, alrigh’. His name was Vol-Voldemort.” Tom shuddered again. Helen thought it was a ridiculous name. Who named their child Voldemort? Despite her bitterness, she could see though just how the name affected people. Tom was still pale; his eyes darting nervously about them. Never mind that the magical world had come up with a way to not say the name. The war must have been terrible, Helen mused. A flicker of pride and pain wrestled in her chest.

With a clunk, she dropped her spoon into an empty bowl. She had not even realised she had finished. Silently, Tom cleared it away. Still, she did nothing except nod her head in thanks.

“Maybe ya should go and lie down fer a bit?” Tom suggested; guilt etched into every line of his face. Helen baulked at the idea; her mind suddenly whirring a hundred miles an hour. Scrunching up her nose in thought, she kicked her feet back and forth irritably.

“No,” she said. “No, what I need to do is to find out the truth.”

She hopped down from the stool so suddenly it almost toppled over on top of her. Steadying it, Helen sent a fleeting smile at a dumbstruck Tom before rushing back up to her room. It seemed she finally knew what to spend her galleons on.

 

*    *    *

 

After two days of practically camping out at Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley’s main bookshop, most of Helen’s money was gone. As well as her patience. Every book she found on Voldemort and the Blood War all seemed to follow the same thread: The Ministry had had everything in control. This frustrated Helen to no end. In none of the books she had found did the statistics agree with the statement. The death toll had been enormous. Most of the casualties however seemed to have been muggles or muggleborns. Although never said outright, most books seemed to deem this an acceptable loss. Helen often felt sick after reading but powered on regardless. She was determined to. She would not let her parents sacrifice be in vain.

Just before noon one Thursday, Helen gave up. Surrounded by a pile of books in a far corner of the bookshop, she sat cross-legged on the floor. With her head in her hands, she squeezed her eyes tightly. Words flashed against her eyelids in a dizzy array until she wanted to cry. At the end of the stack, a girl appeared. She carried a shopping basket on one arm as she hovered hesitantly. Finally, the girl threw back her head and marched over to Helen.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked. Surprised, Helen squinted above her. A black girl about her own age with bushy hair and rather large front teeth stood in front of her. Pushing her glasses up her nose, Helen blinked rapidly.

“Ugh, I guess.” She said glumly. The girl frowned as if she did not believe her but was unsure as to what to say. Awkwardly, the two girls looked anywhere but each other until the girl jerked her head next to where Helen sat.

“Are those your books?”

“Kinda, well I’m reading them.” Helen rubbed her neck sheepishly. Without prompting, the girl sat down abruptly and pulled one of the books towards her.

“ _Key Conquests of the Blood War_?” the girl read out dubiously. Feeling a bit like she was on show, the young Potter heir nodded silently. The girl shuffled through a few more of the book titles before turning around imperiously.

“Why are you reading so many books about the Blood War?”

Helen did not think the girl was trying to be rude; though she was definitely feeling uncomfortable as the stranger attempted to interrogate her.

“I wanted to get as many opinions as possible.” She shrugged.

“But why?” the girl seemed genuinely confused. “In a revised version of _A History of Magic_ , there’s a whole chapter dedicated to the Blood War. I heard its even on our Hogwarts booklist.”

Helen had read it. The book had seemed to gloss over the numbers even more than the ones she had found in Flourish and Blotts. Shuffling the books around her, she managed to find a scrap of parchment and her pencil. Triumphant, she thrust it under the other girls nose.

“Yes it does, but _A History of Magic_ only provides an overview. Besides, none of the data matches what the books are saying anyway.” Helen tapped the paper with her pencil importantly. The girl pursed her lips disbelievingly but read what was given to her. While she did that, it struck Helen that it was the first time she had managed to have an actual conversation with someone her own age. No Dudley here to mess it up, she thought victoriously.

“This is very thorough.” The girl sounded surprised. She looked at Helen with grudging respect as she handed back the parchment.

“But why wouldn’t _A History of Magic_ cover any of this?” she pointed out. Helen shrugged.

“I dunno. Maybe because its only supposed to provide a broad view of the war? We are still in school.” Helen said. The girl was silent. Helen felt as if she was being judged. Pushing her shopping basket aside so she could kneel more comfortably, the girl thrust out a hand.

“I’m Hermione Granger. I’ll be starting at Hogwarts this year.” The girl said promptly. Taking the hand extended to her, Helen smiled.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Helen Potter. I’ll be starting my first year as well.”

“Are you really?” Hermione asked. Wincing, Helen suddenly remembered that the chapter also covered the fall of Voldemort.

“Yes, but none of what the book says is true.” She said. Hermione wiggled her nose thoughtfully.

“What about the other books?”

“There are more books?” Helen asked aghast. The horror on her face must had been obvious as Hermione let out a soft laugh. Scrambling to her feet, she picked up her basket and waved impatiently.

“Come on!”

Helen scrambled to follow her. Tucking her things into her pockets, she happily followed Hermione’s self-assured footsteps. Bookcases and streams of bobbing books passed them by as they weaved their way through the veritable maze. Eventually they emerged into the front of the shop. Here, the open space was full of milling people. Hermione took no notice and instead darted through them with ease. Following behind her as quick as she could, Helen stumbled to a stop beside her wayward companion. Taking up half a wall was one of those stands most bookshops had. The ones with _bestseller!_ Or _Read Now!_ In fancy cardboard cut-out above them. Instead though, the one in Flourish and Blotts read _Helen Potter – The-Girl-Who-Lived_. It even flashed. Her mouth fell open in horror.

“See,” Hermione was saying smugly. “There are loads of books about you.”

Helen could see that. There were books on her family history, articles on theories about how she had survived, autobiographies of her childhood, and perhaps most disturbing of all, fictional stories where she was the heroine! Had the magical world known how the Dursley’s treated her? Had they known about the cupboard? Or how she had to dumb down her grades? Tears pricked her eyes. They must have, why else would there be so many books on her childhood? Helen was shaking, but not she realised, out of fear. These people were making money out of her suffering. She knew that it could have been much worse, but that did not mean that the way the Dursley’s had treated her was acceptable.

Hermione had finally seemed to realise that she was not talking. Frowning, she tapped Helen’s shoulder cumbersomely.

“Are you alright?” she asked, worried that she had upset the small girl she had found hidden behind books taller than her.

“No,” Helen said, her voice trembling. Hermione’s face fell. Biting her lip, she watched as the smaller girl shoved her glasses up her nose determinedly before pulling down as many books as she could reach.

“What are you doing?” Hermione asked eventually. Glassy-eyed but resolute, Helen took a deep breath.

“I’m gonna read as many of these as I can.”

Dithering in her spot, Hermione shook herself mentally before offering her shopping basket.

“Maybe, maybe I could help you go through them? Find out what’s real.” She said. Stilling, Helen blinked. Quietly, she dropped the books into the proffered basket. Together, the girls walked up to the counter. As the shop assistant rang up her order, Helen contemplated the girl beside her. She was blunt and bossy yet also kind. Thanking the till clerk, she took her bag of shrunken books. Tom would un-shrink them for her.

“I’m staying at The Leaking Cauldron,” Helen said. “Maybe we could meet there tomorrow for breakfast.”

Hermione’s face lit up. She nodded her head so vigorously that her coiled hair flew about her head. Helen giggled. The girls parted ways reluctantly as Hermione had to return to her parents. Waving goodbye, Helen felt the knot in her chest loosen for the first time since she had read that article.

When she returned to The Leaky Cauldron, Tom the barkeep was delighted to see her in a better mood. The small girl had been unusually quiet, and her large, sad green eyes had had him worried. He listened cheerfully as Helen explained her day as she munched down on her dinner (gammon and chips). Tom did not know who this Hermione girl was, but he was grateful that she seemed determined to make the young Potter a friend.

 As she climbed into bed that night and snuggled into fresh sheets, Helen popped a gooey marshmallow in her mouth. When she had started yawning into her dessert, Tom had plied her with hot chocolate and sent her off to bed. Swamped by goose-feathers, she propped one of her new books, _Foundling Years: The Beginnings of Society,_ on her knees and buried herself between its pages. It was only as the candle on her bedside flickered out that she realised the time. Tired, she shut the book, took off her glasses and fell asleep happy.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Hi!I just really want to apologise for such a late update. This month has been super hectic what with uni and everything. I just want to thank everyone for their patience and apologise again for the re-write. I really struggled with the direction I saw the story going (straight into cliche-ville) so I rewrote it. If you have been nice enough to follow this story, then I would suggest going back and reading from the first chapter again. Hope you still like it!  - Sunny

* * *

 

Hermione Granger was having a fantastic week. In fact, she was having a great summer all-round. First, a stern looking woman by the name of Minerva McGonagall had arrived halfway through June to inform the Grangers that what their daughter could do, was actually magic. This was because Hermione was a witch. Once Doctors Robert and Jean Granger had realised that magic was indeed real, they had become both incredibly proud of their only daughter and almost zealous in their enthusiasm for knowing everything.

The professor had seemed very startled at how well the Grangers had taken everything, but then again, the Grangers were a very smart family and though they had been hesitant to label Hermione’s abilities as ‘magic’, it had certainly not stopped them in learning what she could do. This had led to a somewhat lonely childhood for Hermione – who, with her high intelligence, had already found it difficult to connect with other children – due to the inherent cautiousness of parents who realise their daughter is different. For the Grangers to not only find out what exactly Hermione was, but to learn there was an entire hidden society for people just like her, was a godsend. This revelation had led to planning many trips to Diagon Alley.

Perhaps what Hermione was most excited and anxious about however, was Helen. The girl was a prospective friend and had even invited Hermione and her family to breakfast. Doctors Granger had been so relieved that they had agreed, and even promised to take the girls shopping and possibly even ice cream for lunch. This was a great treat for a daughter of two dentists.

With the meticulous planning only a Granger could pull off, the family had arrived early at The Leaky Cauldron. Nervously, Hermione had led her parents into the inn. There were perhaps only one or two people there; heads hung over steaming mugs that most definitely did not smell like coffee. A clattering noise caught the family’s attention and they all looked towards the bar where a man with an apron tied around his waist and a humpback cursed softly as he balanced a stack of dishes on the countertop. Ever her parents’ daughter, Hermione stepped forwards and said promptly,

“Would you like some help?”

The man looked up startled, but his expression quickly softened into a smile. The dentists quickly noticed that he was missing three teeth but did not say anything. Chuckling, the man heaved the dishes into two piles before shuffling around to the back of the bar.

“Ah that is very kind of ya to offer, but needn’t worry, I’m not keeling over yet.” The barkeep winked at her. Hermione’s parents smiled proudly. Wiping his hands down, Tom turned to them fully.

“M’names Tom. What can I get fer ya fine folks this morning?”

Helping his daughter hop onto a stool, Robert Granger held out his hand to introduce himself.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Robert, this is my wife Jean and our daughter Hermione. We were hoping to order breakfast.” He said. Robert Granger was a genial man with a good job, a wonderful family and an eidetic memory. This was not the only thing that Hermione had inherited from him however, as she had also got his bushy hair. As with her husband, Jean Granger was highly intelligent and a very family-orientated person. So, although they put so much work into their dentistry practice, their daughter had always come first.

It did not take long for the close-knit family to place their orders. Practically bouncing in her seat, Hermione kept turning around to look for Helen. Amused, Jean and Robert shared a grin. Arriving with their drinks, Tom smiled.

“So what brings ya here so early?” he asked. Jean sipped at her tea, marvelling silently at the bottles behind the bar that shuffled about by themselves when the barkeep was not looking.

“Well Hermione was invited to breakfast by another girl starting in her year.” She said proudly. Hermione flushed but looked incredibly pleased. Tom scratched the top of his head.

“Ah well, a hearty breakfast is a good way ta start. Ya must be mighty proud she got in.” he said shining a glass. The door to the pub opened and a heavily cloaked figure shuffled in. The Grangers looked on hesitantly as the figure waved what seemed to be a claw at the barkeep, but old Tom simply smiled and greeted them by name. After making sure they were well, he turned back to the small family; only to witness as they gaped in delight as the daughter’s orange juice refilled automatically. Humming as understanding dawned upon him, Tom smiled.

“Muggleborn?” he asked. Scrunching up her nose, Hermione thought for a second before visibly brightening.

“Yes – nobody in my family has ever had magic. I’m the first.” She said very proudly. The old barkeep felt a twinge in his heart but pushed it aside.

“Tha’s great.” Tom grinned. Robert place a hand over his wife’s and squeezed gently.

“We’d always known our Hermione was special, but it was such a relief to know why she could do what she can. We’ve had to be so careful with her growing up.” He said, his smile dimming slightly. Tom nodded along dutifully as the Granger family delved into revealing what they had discovered about the magical world and fielded their questions as dutifully as he could.

Finally, as the family slowed down to eat their newly delivered food, Tom whistled cheerily before bustling off. A polite cough had the family turning around. Hopping from one foot to the other nervously, was Helen. Clearly, she had tried to neaten herself up. Face washed, her dusky skin near shone. Raven hair was pulled back into a ponytail, except for a thick fringe. Both her shirt and trousers were hitched around her tiny waist by a belt she had obviously cut holes in herself. As medical professionals, Jean and Robert had been trained to listen to their instincts; and frankly, alarm bells were ringing in their heads.

“Hello.” She said hesitantly. Patting the stool next to her, Hermione beamed at her parents.

“Mum, Dad, this is Helen Potter. Helen, these are my parents Doctors Robert and Jean Granger.” She introduced with aplomb. As small as she was, it took the girl to the end of Hermione’s sentence to climb atop a stool. Settling down, the girl smiled embarrassedly. Jean’s heart was in her throat.

“Its nice to meet you.” Helen said politely, holding out a hand. Reaching across his daughter, Robert shook it. The girl’s hand was nothing but bone. Jean clutched his arm tightly.

“Lovely of you to invite us to lunch Helen.” He said. The girl smiled abashedly and waved for the barkeep. Tom hurried over, his eyes startled before he began to beam.

“Well, this is a surprise!” he chortled. “Yer usual little miss?”

“Yes please Tom.” Helen said. It was not long before scrambled eggs and toast was put before her. The Grangers took up eating once again as their guest had arrived. Jean and Robert watched sharply as the two girls put their heads together and whispered. Halfway through their meal, Jean cleared her throat.

“So, Hermione says you’re staying here. Are you with your parents?”

Helen squirmed in her seat and lowered her fork. Lowering his own cutlery, Robert frowned and leaned forward.

“Uh no, Doctor Granger. My parents are dead.”

Robert winced.

“Oh I’m so sorry dear.” Jean’s hands flew to her mouth. Hermione grimaced in embarrassment.

“It’s okay Doctor Granger. They died when I was a baby. I didn’t know I was a witch either until a week ago.” Helen added, hoping to change the conversation. Setting down her glass loudly, Hermione tossed her hair back.

“Really?” she asked. “But both your parents had magic?”

Swinging her feet, Helen nodded. The elder Granger’s gave her their full attention. Breakfast lay forgotten before them.

“I lived with my Aunt, she said magic wasn’t real.”

“How did you find out?” Hermione was too engrossed in her new friend’s story to notice her parents’ grim expressions. Tom lingered near them, and when the Grangers looked to him for confirmation, he nodded his head sadly.

“I saw the pub.” Helen said simply. A small smile played across her lips. Robert nodded his head thoughtfully. They had not been able to see the pub until Hermione led them by the hand – and even then, only when they were on the doorstep. It was a fascinatingly simple piece of magic. Very effective though, and all the more wondrous for it. 

“So, what about your Aunt dear?” Jean asked delicately; knocking her husband out of his reverie.

“I told her I wasn’t going back with her.”

“And what did your Aunt say?” Robert could not help but ask, despite the answer sitting write in front of them.

“She said it was okay to go.”

A plate crashed to the floor behind the bar. Mumbling apologies, Tom bent to pick it up with a wheeze. After checking that everything was alright, Jean turned a bright smile upon the girls.

“Well I’m glad you’re safe here Helen.” She said meaningfully before slapping her hands upon the countertop. “Now, we thought we would take you girls to do a bit of exploring and shopping before grabbing a bite of lunch. How does that sound?”

 

*    *    *

 

Their first stop was Gringotts. Much like every time she stepped into Diagon Alley, a small thrill ran up Helen’s spine. Her key weighed heavily in her pocket; her hand hovering over it uncertainly, terrified it might fall out. Converting muggle money into wizarding money required a completely different section of the main foyer. Tucked into a corner, the booth was less like a desk and more like a security office. A golden grille encased the high desk with only a small slot for the attending goblin to look out of.

“I would like to exchange one hundred pounds please into, er, galleons.” Robert said. The goblin barley looked up as he opened a drawer with a clack. With clawed fingers he places four columns of shining metal before them.

“Thirty-three galleons, three sickles and four knuts.” The goblin said promptly before dismissing them with a wave. Jean and Robert scrambled to collect the larger-than usual coins. Emerging back out into the alley, Helen squinted as she adjusted to the light. Though happy to be included, she felt slightly uncomfortable in the Granger’s happy family dynamic.

Placing a hand on the young girls back, Jean smiled kindly as she gently steered the girl to keep up with them. In front, Hermione was practically hanging off of her father’s arm; pleading with him.

“Flourish and Blotts isn’t far from here – please Dad.” she wheedled much to her parents’ amusement. Shaking his head, Robert shot a grin over his shoulder.

“Why don’t we get you girls some school robes?” Jean pointed towards a shop window. Moving mannequins in fluttering robes occupied the window; great swathes of fabric hanging tastefully from the ceiling.

“Excellent idea!” Robert beamed. “Best get in before the school rush.”

The adults hustled the girls into Madam Malkins Robes for All Occasions before they could protest. Inside, the shop was crowded with rolls of glittering fabric, mannequins and squishy armchairs. At the far end, two floor-to-ceiling mirrors gleamed. Alarmed, Helen looked to Hermione only for relief to flood through her at the identical look of bewilderment on her new friend’s face. Jean had immediately headed to run her hands over the rolls of fabric and coo. Robert had situated himself comfortably in an armchair with practised ease.

At the back of the shop, the draperies parted like curtains to let a bustling older witch though. Dressed in flowing black robes, the witch wore multiple glass bead necklaces around her throat.

“Welcome,” she beamed. “I am Madam Malkin; how may I help you?”

Her hair was piled on top of her head like candyfloss and her necklaces clattered with every step. Stepping forwards, Jean herded the girls with her.

“Hello, we were hoping to get the girls here some robes for school. They start Hogwarts this year.” She said. Hermione preened under her mother’s pride. Helen felt hot under her skin. Clapping her hands together, Madam Malkin’s smile brightened.

“Oh how wonderful.” She said. “Right this way then girls.”

Madam Malkin ushered them towards the mirrors. Brandishing her wand, two ottomans zoomed out from nowhere and settled before them.

“Up you pop!” she sang, waving her wand once again. A measuring tape and a notepad and quill appeared from the back. As the measuring tape flitted around the girls one by one, Madam Malkin followed it; humming and hawing as she scribbled away. Eventually the tape disappeared with an audible pop. Despite the wizarding magazines available to them, Jean and Robert watched wide-eyed at the blatant display of magic. Helen and Hermione were not much better.

“Now, most people buy three to four school robes. Two normal sets, then one for winter and the summer outer robes.” Madam Malkin said over her shoulder. Robert hummed and nodded in agreement. The school robes were a plain black and though she used magic to drape them over the girls, Madam Malkin altered them herself. It was as she was adjusting the neckline of Helen’s robes that her eyes flickered up. Gasping, she could just see the tell-tale scar on the girls forehead.

“Oh, Heir Potter; I do apologise for not recognising you sooner!” Madam Malkin babbled as she stepped back suddenly. Immediately, Jean and Robert glided forwards.

“Everything alright?” he asked, brow furrowed. Embarrassed, Helen squirmed at all the attention.

“Is this to do with Helen’s family?” Hermione wondered. Seeing their confusion, Madam Malkin straightened her robes; clinking as she did so.

“Well,” she cleared her throat. “Yes it does. As the Potter’s are an integral part of our society, it is customary to address them by their titles, in this case Heir Potter, until you come of age. Has no one explained this to you?”

Baffled, Madam Malkin watched as the group turned to one another and shrugged.

“No.” Helen said, squirming almost apologetically. Wringing her hands together nervously, Madam Malkin took a deep breath.

“I would suggest then Heir Potter you get into contact with your family solicitor, they will be able to help you more than I. However, due to your station in the magical world I would suggest several more robes.” She said. Helen agreed and over an hour later, she left the shop with the Granger’s with two large bags. Seeing the small girl struggle, Robert leant over and plucked one from her hand.

“Here, let me help.” He grinned.

“Thank you, Doctor Granger.” Helen said gratefully. The rest of their morning was spent wandering down the cobbled street and breezing through shops randomly; picking up bits and pieces as they went. It was only as they sat down at Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream shop with a mountain of bags, did Hermione’s curiosity finally became too much.

“What’s a solicitor?” she asked, taking a big spoonful of her strawberry sundae. Swallowing the cherry off the top of her banana split, Jean hummed.

“Well,” she cleared her throat. “It’s a type of lawyer dear. They help people with legal matters such as wills and other documents.”

Helen ate her ice cream slowly. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she glanced quickly at Hermione, but she was occupied by her sundae. Kicking out her feet, Helen warred with herself before sighing.

“That’s the second time someone has told me to see my family solicitor. Do you think I should?” she worried at her lip as Robert and Jean exchanged a look. Setting her spoon down decisively, Jean leaned forwards and smiled reassuringly.

“I think it would be a good idea. If you want, we can take you and wait outside as you see them? Unfortunately, we will be busy for the next week; but we can take you after.”

Helen could not help the smile that crawled across her face as Hermione nodded enthusiastically. Robert also let out a noise of agreement over his cup of tea. Taking a fortifying breath, Helen straightened in her chair.

“Thank you, Doctor Granger, but I think this is something I have to do by myself.”

Jean did not look convinced, but she inclined her head in acceptance. Placing down his cup, Robert tapped his fingers on the table-top.

“It’s a shame the magical world doesn’t have telephones, then you girls could keep in contact.” He said. Everyone was silent for several minutes as the girls ate the last of their ice creams despondently; neither wishing to part from their new friend. Letting the last of her peanut butter and raspberry ripple ice cream melt on her tongue, Helen suddenly shot up with such enthusiasm that the Granger’s all jumped with surprise.

“Oh! We could use a post owl though.” She said giddily. “I can get one so we can send letters to each other.”

“That’s a great idea! That way we can exchange ideas on those books on your family.” Hermione was practically vibrating in her chair at the idea. Robert rolled his eyes at his wife.

“Wonderful idea Helen, but I am afraid we really must go now.” Jean said. All four scrambled to find their own purchases. Once sorted out, Helen followed the Granger’s to the entrance back into The Leaky Cauldron. Hesitating for a second, she gathered her courage and surged forward to hug Hermione. Letting go quickly, she stepped back and ducked her head. Hermione stood rooted to the spot, stunned.

“Friends are supposed to hug goodbye, right?” Helen said. Blinking, Hermione suddenly beamed. Standing slightly apart, the elder Granger’s watched happily as the two awkward girls began their friendship.

“Yeah they do. They also send letters.” Hermione reminded. Helen grinned and bounced on her feet.

“I promise. I’ll send you some books this afternoon.” Helen promised. Waving goodbye, she watched the Granger’s disappear through the arch. Once alone, she turned on her heel and meandered back down the street. Outside shops sat baskets and tables displaying the odd yet wonderful wares of the magical world. Cauldrons in tottering piles encased one doorway, broomsticks displayed proudly in another. Everywhere she looked there was something new to discover. Just past Fortescue’s, Helen finally found what she was looking for. Adjusting her bags, she squeezed her way into the Magical Menagerie.

The menagerie was a hive of organisational chaos. Cages swung from the ceiling, glass-fronted terrariums ran along one side and pens against another. The noise was cacophonous. Helen almost wanted to drop her bags to clap her hands over her ears. Instead, she hitched them closer to her and stumbled her way through the weaving and prowling cats. Yellow eyes blinked at her and made her shiver. Barn, little, snowy, long-eared, tawny, eagle, and emperor were just a few of the owls she could see.

Overwhelmed, Helen groaned. This was going to be much more of a chore than she had thought. Shuffling the bags further up her arms, she huffed determinedly. First, she picked out a bag of owl treat. Then for a good ten minutes, she listened as the shop assistant waxed lyrically about the different type of cages and perches. Helen nodded along absentmindedly, unsure how to get away. Eventually she settled on a standard steel cage and a perch with an in-built pellet dispenser. As the clerk happily shrunk the perch down for her, Helen wandered about once again; this time determined to pick an owl. The barn owls looked very majestic, but then the little owls were adorable. But would they be able to carry large packages? Helen gnawed at her lip.

She was pondering a regal looking long-eared owl and reaching forwards nervously, when an indignant shriek made her jump. Glaring viciously at the long-eared, was a beautiful snowy owl. Lowering her hand, Helen tipped her head to the side. The snowy owl switched its gaze towards her imperiously. Slowly, Helen reached out her hand. The owl looked at her for a split second before closing its eyes as her fingers stroked a feathery wing.

A few minutes later, Helen exited the shop happily with purchases stuffed into her bags and the snowy owl on her shoulder. So happy with her day, she did not notice that she headed back to the Leaky Cauldron, that the wind shifted, stirring her fringe and exposing her forehead. A pale, blond haired man at the opposite end of street caught sight of her and his eyes narrowed. Swiftly, he disappeared into the crowd.

 

*    *    *

 

Bundled back up in her room, Helen chatted absently to her owl as she unpacked all of her things. Whereas before when she had borrowed a pencil and some parchment from Tom, the Granger’s had taken them to a stationery store and both girls had bought a small guide on how to write with a quill and a beginner’s set. Setting her things out on her desk, she pinged the Jupiter on her travel solar system and giggled as it whizzed around the sun. Her owl gazed around the room imperiously, before settling on the headboard. She would get Tom to unshrink the perch later.

For over an hour, Helen worked diligently at the writing exercises the handbook recommended. Once satisfied she had made enough progress, she set it aside and began sorting through her books. Setting a few aside to send to Hermione later, Helen glanced up towards the clock. It was an odd clock. It had twelve hands and instead of numbers, small planets winked back at her. Tom had spent most of her first day of freedom teaching her how to read it.

Face scrunched up in concentration, she mouthed the numbers before brightening. Five-thirty. A suitable time for supper, as Aunt Petunia would say. Pouring a small pile of owl treats onto the mantlepiece, Helen petted her owl before promising to be back. The corridors of the Leaky Cauldron were long and narrow. The ceiling above so high it dimmed the lighting into grey nothingness. The doors were so close together along the walls, Helen had first worried that there would be no room – but of course, magic.

Downstairs, she swung about her stool, practically glowing with happiness. Throwing a rag over his shoulder, Tom came over to take her order (roast chicken and mashed potatoes). As usual the food was delicious, and Helen was wiggling excitedly as she recounted her day. Delighted, Tom listened as she babbled on.

“I just don’t know what to call her.” She lamented over treacle pudding. Refilling her glass, Tom hummed.

“Wha’ about a name from one of yer books?” he suggested. Chewing thoughtfully, she nodded.

“That’s a good idea. I’ll look for one later.” She said.

“Just make sure ya don’t stay up too late.” Tom warned, wagging a finger. Helen promised and yawned. With a mug of hot chocolate in hand, she watched sleepily but happily at the tables around her. It had been a promising day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I am so sorry that this took so long. Midterms kinda threw me for a loop and honestly there are so many stories rampaging through my head its been hard to concentrate on this one. I'm still trying to figure out how to use this website as well so bear with me please! :)

Helen was miserable. Exploring Diagon Alley just did not seem like fun anymore. More than once she had found herself turning to ask a question only to realise Hermione was not hovering beside her. Her only solace were her books. Helen had collected quite a few since stepping into the magical world.

Room thirty-seven had become a haven of sorts. A messy one, but a safe place nonetheless. While the room did have a small cabinet, there simply was not enough space for all her books. Overflowing, they were scattered across the floor; rising like rocks from the ocean-bed. It was not the books that presented her current challenge however.

Spread out face-first on the bed, Helen groaned. A dull throbbing had started behind her ears the day before, yet she had ignored it. Burying her head further into a pillow, Helen squeezed her eyes shut as colours burst behind her eyelids. Sat on the window ledge, Hedwig – the beautiful snowy owl – hooted lowly. Even that small sound caused the young girl to whimper. Despite how miserable she was, she could not help feeling that it was worth it. The Potter’s were amazing. All the books agreed – magical Britain would have been nothing if not for the Potter Family. They were mentioned in so many books – from _Great Genealogies: Volumes one-to-six_ , to even books like _Commercial Discoveries: potions that changed the world!_ Apparently, her grandfather had been a great potioneer and started the business Sleekeazy’s – which made a range of haircare potions. Her notes had become so extensive that they had taken over her room.

Since meeting the Grangers, Hedwig had become as much as permanent guest there as she was with Helen. Books, notes and theories had been exchanged. Despite being on holiday in Dorset, Hermione had all but demanded the notes Helen had on the Blood War. She had complied quite happily; two heads were better than one after all. With much reluctance, Hermione had finally conceded that _A History of Magic_ was not entirely accurate. This personal disappointment had driven her friend almost mental – the letters Helen received had made her giggle on a few occasions. It was one such letter that lay newly opened by her head.

Scribbled on lined paper, Hermione’s handwriting had descended into a riot down the page as she got more worked up:

 

_Dear Helen,_

_I hope your day is going well. We visited Corfe Castle yesterday. It’s a beautiful place – right up on the hill overlooking everything. I’ve heard Hogwarts is a castle too; I hope it’s just as amazing._

_Mum and Dad say hello. They’re not too happy with our research. They found that book we were looking at –_ Key Conquests of the Blood War, _they say its very graphic for just children. They’ve taken it to check, but I also gave them my notes, so they can see what we found. At the least we can get another opinion. I hope that’s okay._

_I still can’t believe that the books are wrong. I mean, there are loads of stories about you but none of them have even been slightly true. You should tell someone. Mum says that’s the sort of thing you can talk to your solicitor about. Do remember to do that Hel, its more important than ever now. Especially considering everyone thinks you’re some kind of hero. Daddy says a good solicitor will be able to protect your legal rights._

_See you Soon!_

_Hermione_

 

Hedwig had arrived just after lunch with the letter. Pityingly, Tom had put a small note and phial on the tray with her lunch. After eating, she was to drink the whole thing and wait an hour for her migraine to clear. Drinking it had almost not been worth the slow easing of pain in her head. Muffled, Helen whined. Eyeing her witch cautiously, Hedwig barked before swooping to her perch. Preening her wings, she ignored the girl who continued to wriggle unhappily.

As the last vestiges of her migraine leeched away, Helen flipped over onto her back. Slowly, she cracked open her eyes. It was bright, but no longer sent fire through her skull. Relieved, she sighed. Waving a hand sluggishly across the bed, her fingers scraped parchment and she clutched it tightly. Bringing it up to her face, Helen squinted through the last thumps of pain in her head. Hermione was probably right – she should contact her solicitor. She still had the scrap of parchment Clarok had given her somewhere.

The thought of moving made her grimace, but she managed to stumble across the room. The folder sat in the top righthand corner of the desk. The documents inside slightly more ruffled and out of order than they had been when she had received it, but lovingly taken care of. Opening the sleek black file, Helen picked up the scrap of parchment tucked into the front pocket. Spiky black handwriting was stark against the pale parchment: _Renshaw and Sons._ Sinking into the chair, she opened up her writing set. She still had some trouble with controlling the quill, but the daily letters to Hermione were helping her practise.

Painstakingly, she crafted a letter on thick parchment requesting a meeting. Once again, upon seeing her scar, the owner of the stationery shop had gone into a tizzy and insisted that Helen had needed more than just a sheaf of the standard parchment and inks. The shopkeeper had also suggested a book on formal introductions and proper writings. Something that Hermione had been most curious about; but had reluctantly stepped back when her parents concluded it was not necessary for her to have. Helen had promised to share it with her when they went to Hogwarts. The scratching of her quill was the only sound as she carefully flicked back and froth between the guide and her letter. At the end, she hesitated before carefully printing her name, _H. Potter._ Rolling it up, she tied a black ribbon around the parchment before turning to her owl.

“Do you mind a short trip girl?” she asked, smiling hesitantly as Hedwig blinked yellow eyes languidly. A short hop, and Hedwig’s talons clattered on the desk as she shuffled about importantly. Sticking out a leg so Helen could attach the clever little weightless and extendable leather pouch to her leg, Hedwig sat patiently. Once the letter was secured in the pouch, Helen stroked the owl’s feathered head in thanks. The owl swooped out of the open window with little preamble.

Leaning her elbows on the desk, she blinked lazily. Out of the window, the July sun was boiling in a cloudless sky. Bleached, the sky burned her retinas. It was an odd look for London – the unbridled light that bathed the streets and made people turn away. There was nowhere to hide from it and Helen wondered idly if it meant anything. Since discovering the magical world, she had been delighted that legends and myths held much more sway and truth than the muggle world believed. One of her books – the _Pureblood Directory_ – briefly skimmed over that many of the old families worshipped family gods or figures. This knowledge was closely guarded by the families however and it had not expanded upon what the Potter family gods may be; much to her disappointment. As such, Helen had decided to put much more stock in to her gut feeling. It had always been rather good, and if there was the possibility that some greater force was guiding her, well, then Helen was not stupid enough to ignore it.

The screech of a train pulling into Charing Cross made her jerk upwards. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she grimaced as the dull throb echoed in her head. Perhaps a nap would help. Curling around a pillow, Helen was asleep in seconds.

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

Before making a friend in Hermione, mornings in Diagon Alley had been Helen’s favourite. Very few people went out shopping and the shopkeepers still setting up would greet her with a smile and a wave; not yet exhausted from a harrowing day of work. While summer, it was early enough that being aside in the heat was not a chore. She would be able to hear her feet scuffing on the cobblestones and peruse most leisurely.

By mid-morning, the alley would be crowded with families and shoppers alike. Not that Helen was paying any attention. On one of the small offshoots from Diagon Alley sat the businesses that were less likely to attract such people. Law firms, accountants, and the kind of restaurants Aunt Petunia had always wanted to visit, lined the street with a kind of opulence that contrasted greatly with the vivacity of the mouth of the alley. Situated in a modest building was the law firm Renshaw and Sons. The sign above the building stated the business quite firmly in no-nonsense, block letters.

Having woken from her nap just before dinner without a headache, Helen had been quite pleased to see Hedwig had returned. The note she carried had been short and to the point. The firm would be delighted to see her the very next day at her earliest convenience. A small map had unfurled beneath the main body of the letter to point her in the right direction.

Teetering on the doorstep, Helen pulled at her robes. She had scrubbed furiously at her face that morning until there were two pink spots on her cheekbones. Her hair gathered back into a messy bun and wearing what Madam Malkin had insisted were casual robes, Helen felt as ready as she could be. Once sure she was presentable, she grasped the doorknob and stepped inside. A spacious room, a reception desk took up most of the space, with two doors either side. To the right was a staircase and along the left wall, a sofa and a Flutterby bush. A nondescript brown-haired woman sat the desk. Upon spotting the young girl, she stood up.

“Heir Potter I presume?” she smiled encouragingly over rectangular glasses. The receptionist placed her quill in its stand before moving out from behind the desk.

“I’m afraid Madam Renshaw was unavailable today, but Mister Bryce Renshaw has cleared his schedule to speak with you.” The receptionist ushered her over as she knocked on the left-hand door. A muffled ‘come in’ echoed back to the them and the receptionist smiled encouragingly at her before opening the door.

Sat behind an old but well-cared for desk was a man in his early forties. Clean-shaven and wearing a pinstriped suit under a charcoal outer robe, the man stood. Shuffling into the room, Helen swallowed nervously. The door closed behind her.

“Heir Potter. I apologise for the hurriedness of our meeting. I was surprised to receive your letter.” Bryce Renshaw said not unkindly. Helen blushed and sank into an armchair by the window. Waving his wand, a cabinet opened and out flew a tin of biscuits.

“Not that it was a bad thing I assure you.” He smiled and the crow’s feet around his eyes was much more visible. “We are very proud to represent the House of Potter and I must say, I am very relieved to finally meet you.”

Popping the lid off the tin, Mr Renshaw offered it to her. Shyly, Helen took a custard cream.

“Now,” Mr Renshaw leant back comfortably in his armchair. “What can I help you with today Heir Potter?”

Nibbling on her biscuit, Helen was silent for a minute. Just outside the door, the soft scratching of a quill could be heard. Wiping the crumbs off her lap, she cleared her throat.

“I would like to see my parent’s will please. And – and my estate.” She said, frowning slightly. Shrewdly, Mr Renshaw observed the small yet determined girl. Clearly, she had no real understanding of her place in the magical world. Her clothes were befitting yes, but her glasses were broken and the trainers peeking out from beneath her robes were old and caked with mud. Shifting in his seat, he inclined his head.

“Of course, Heir Potter.” He said. “Rusty!”

With a pop, a strange creature appeared. Smaller than Helen by about a head, it had large bat-like ears and tennis ball sized eyes. Wearing a plain uniform, the creature bowed; its ears flapping as it did so.

“Please fetch the Potter files.” Mr Renshaw said. The creature bowed again before disappearing with another loud pop. Open-mouthed, Helen exclaimed:

“What was that?”

Mr Renshaw’s lips twitched as he settled back into his seat.

“That was Rusty, one of the house-elves employed by the firm.” He said. So that was a house-elf, Helen mused silently as she reached for another biscuit. Tugging his robes around him to be more comfortable, Mr Renshaw smiled.

“Is there anything you would like to discuss before we go through all the boring legal things?”

Helen grinned slightly and relaxed. Tapping her foot anxiously, she breathed deeply. Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember all the snippets people had dropped around her. Hermione’s letter shimmered before her eyes and Helen frowned.

“Er, yes.” She said. “First, there seems to be a lot of books about me.”

“Yes, you are quite the hot topic of discussion in most wizarding homes.” Mr Renshaw laced his fingers together. He watched silently as a blush overtook the girls face before stubbornness wore out and she frowned angrily despite it.

“None of them are true.” She insisted. Mr Renshaw leant forwards suddenly and raised an eyebrow.

“None of them?” he asked, jabbing his wand behind him. A drawer somewhere behind him opened and a green quill and parchment zoomed over to hover by his shoulder.

“Well,” Helen quickly amended, embarrassedly rubbing the back of her neck. “The non-fiction ones probably are fine. But the, the stories aren’t true.”

Worried green eyes pleaded with him and he could see just how much it upset the young girl. Chancing a quick glance at the quill besides, he nodded to himself; pleased as it rushed across the parchment. Gleaming ink left in its wake.

“This is a very grave issue Heir Potter, and one I will take most seriously.” He assured the young girl. Her shoulders eased from where they had risen to almost her ears.

“We will immediately begin an investigation into all the books about you – and even fact-check those we are unsure of.” Mr Renshaw said. The quill continued to writhe in the air.

“For the record, can I ask that you state here and now to me whether or not you have given express legal permission for anyone to use your name for commercial use – whether verbally or written?”

Mr Renshaw’s eyes were expressionless but searching as he stared at her. With another wave of his wand, another green quill appeared between them, but this time hovered over what appeared to be an already half-written legal document. Breathing deeply, Helen jutted out her chin. Silver glasses glinted in the light as her emerald eyes burnt fiercely.

“I, Helen Potter, have not given verbal or written permission for anyone or any business to use my name for commercial use.”

The second quill burst to life across the document before falling to the table. Snatching up the article, Mr Renshaw examined it seriously before satisfaction spread across his face. Turning it towards her, he smiled.

“This is a binding legal document which irrefutably states that what these people have done is illegal. Once filed with the Ministry, we can pursue legal action against the people who have used your name for profit.”

Licking her lips, she watched as he waved his wand once more over the document and handed her the copy that popped into existence. There was a sharp _crack_ and Rusty the house-elf appeared once again. In his spindly arms, he carried a polished wooden box that hid his face. Letting out a soft noise of appreciation, Mr Renshaw leant over to pluck the box from Rusty’s arms. Once free, the house-elf bowed so low his bulbous nose almost touched his knees.

“Is there anything else Rusty can do for Master Renshaw?” the house-elf croaked.

“No, we are fine for now. Thank you Rusty.” Mr Renshaw said and the house-elf disappeared with another _crack_. Tucking the box beneath the coffee table for now, the solicitor sat back in his chair. Across from him, Helen was still frowning.

“I don’t -,” her voice broke. “I don’t want to be used.”

Mr Renshaw’s face hardened imperceptibly at the desperation etched into the girl’s whole being. Smoothing out his face into a professional mask, he sent his own copy of the record back to his desk to be filed later.

“Of course, Heir Potter,” he stated smoothly. “These things are mostly straightforward, and results usually occur in a few months. These people will be fined a certain amount and amends paid to the client. However, if we were able to use your name – both as the Girl-Who-lived and as a Potter – we could possibly get results much faster and be able to persuade anybody from repeating such action.”

Helen bit her lip. It was very tempting. She did not care about the money or whatever, she just wanted these people to stop. If using her name would help, then surely it was okay to do so to protect herself? Shifting in her seat, she hesitated:

“How – how would you use my name?”

Waving at her to take another biscuit, Mr Renshaw smiled. It was perfectly understandable that the young heir wished to know.

“Well, in the initial report we would say that the firm represents you personally and the House of Potter’s interests in this case.” He paused. Helen nodded quickly to show she understood. “Such things can be kept quiet; however, I believe to stop such behaviour from happening again, we should release a press statement. This will immediately bring the public into your favour and with that, half the battles won. Anything not approved will disappear almost overnight.”

The idea of her name blared across newspapers like _The Daily Prophet_ made her shiver; and not in a good way. Unused to trusting people – adults especially – Helen warred within herself. Logically, she knew that Mr Renshaw knew what he was doing, and if he said that this way was best, then surely it was. Yet the other half of her brain, the half that had catalogued all of the Dursley’s lessons and lies, told her it was not worth the hassle. Letting out a huff in annoyance, she shoved that thought down. She was not at the Dursley’s anymore. If Helen had her way, they would never be a part of her life again.

“Okay.”

It was a small admission, but Mr Renshaw smiled widely. The Potter heir was still twitchy despite her decision, and he took pity on her.

“I think this has been a very agreeable first meeting Heir Potter.” He smiled kindly at her. “I would suggest that we reconvene in a few days. Gives us some time to start our investigation and allows you some time to gather your thoughts.”

He hefted the box up off the floor and placed it before her. The silver-footed biscuit tin waddling out of the way. There were no sharp corners to the box or even an obvious latch or seam for a lid. Its polished, almost black, surface threw her own distorted image back at her as she examined it.

“In here is a copy of every important legal text you will need: business revenues, properties, employment papers – as well as your parents will. Now,” Mr Renshaw cleared his throat and shuffled forwards. “Normally, my mother would see to such an important client as yourself, but unfortunately she is away until the end of the week. However, if you are willing to wait, then a meeting can certainly be arranged.”

Helen agreed, her eyes glued to the box unwaveringly. She did not notice that Mr Renshaw frowned as she gave him her summer address, but it was certainly something he took note of. Swiftly, he showed her how to open the box – a simple trick of a small indent where she placed her thumb. At first, Helen had thought that it was similar to fingerprint identification that muggle police had, until she pulled her hand away. A small bead of blood bloomed on her thumb. Surprised, she sucked the blood off before turning to the now open box.

Her fingers itched to read every document she could find – to shuffle through for her prize. But she held back. There would be time to read her parents will later. Carefully, she added her own legal record to the pile.

“Would you also like a copy of our meeting?” Mr Renshaw asked. Helen had not even realised that the green quill was still zipping about by his shoulder.

“We take transcripts so that there can be minimal misunderstandings between the firm and clients.” He explained. Thinking it a good idea to have her own copy, she agreed. Waving his wand, the green quill stopped, and he plucked them both from the air. He let her scan over the original herself before creating the copy. Once she was comfortable with the transcript, she added it to her box and closed the lid.

Bryce Renshaw personally saw the young heir out of the firm; box clutched possessively in her frail arms. Too many things worried him as he watched the girl weave her way through the street – both as her solicitor, and as a father himself. Returning to his desk, he sat unmoving; face etched with worry. The case would be a relatively simple one – it was just the magnitude that would take the most time. One article in the newspaper would have the magical world up in arms. Tapping his fingers on the desk, he snorted suddenly and straightened.

            “Evelyn!” he called loudly. A soft shuffling was heard before his door clicked open and the receptionist peeked her head around it curiously. A distant cousin of the Avery family, he believed.

            “The House of Potter is once again a client of this firm,” he began. “And we have a case to make. As such, I want every detail you can find on the last ten years of Heir Potter’s life. Her guardians, where she grew up – everything.”

            While not entirely necessary for the current case, it could not hurt to have that information. Normally, the firm used the house-elves to gather information; and he would, but there were some things even Rusty could not convince people to give up. While much more open-minded than the main branch of the Avery family, Evelyn the receptionist was not above using every avenue available to get what she needed. Besides, Bryce Renshaw thought grimly to himself – the image of the waif-like heir flashing across his mind – the firm was probably going to have a much bigger case on their hands soon.


	5. Chapter 5

Stabbing her spoon into her sundae, Helen scowled. After managing to wheedle out of her just why she was dithering about the pub, Tom had bundled her out into the Alley and said he did not want to see her back until dinner time. Barely brushing four feet, it did not take much for the small wisp of a girl to be swept out into the crowds.

            The black box she had received from Renshaw and Sons had been sitting innocently in front of her fireplace for the past day and a half. For the first time in her life, Helen had been struck with the awful sense of not wanting to know something. Her curiosity seemed to have shrivelled in the face of it, and she had fled to the main floor of the pub. Not that she was scared. No, Helen thought determinedly – her sundae now resembling soup more than anything – she was not scared of her parents will. Except she was.

            For all the Dursley’s had hated her parents, Helen had never truly been allowed to talk about them, let alone have anything that they had owned. The simple idea of a family had been nothing more than a very unrealistic dream. Facts were one thing – dry, boring written words about people the author had never known, Helen could handle. Something her parents had touched, written, and left for her was a completely other matter.

            Miserably, she stirred her ice cream soup. Florean Fortescue’s was always lively with young children. Sat outside in a far corner, yellow striped umbrella overshadowing her table, Helen was afforded some privacy. She had noticed that the more people that saw her, the more they whispered. Already, she was beginning to hate the Girl-Who-lived. No matter where she went, people pointed at her. Shopping in Diagon Alley was starting to become stifling. Scrunching her nose, she picked the cherry stem from between her teeth. Aunt Petunia had always been very strict about table manners – not that had ever applied to her precious Dudders of course. Feeling a spike of smug satisfaction, Helen gripped her bowl and tipped it up to slurp at her ice cream. She did not care if anyone was watching. All she could see were the Dursley’s horrified faces, and she grinned.

            It was only mid-afternoon by the time she left the ice cream parlour. Aimlessly, Helen wandered down the alley. Streams of people passed by her in bustling groups of pointed hats. Self-consciously, she tugged on her robes. Pale blue, they fluttered about her ankles; scuffed white trainers peeking out beneath. The crowds parted for a second, but it was enough. A family of pale blondes glided through the gap, and the youngest – a son about her own age with a pointed face – bumped into her. His bag dropped with a thud; the logo flashing silver.

            “Do you mind?” the boy asked rudely, his grey eyes flashing. Startled, Helen fidgeted, pinned to the spot by three pairs of eyes. The family were dressed almost identically in immaculate black robes.

            “Now Draco,” the mother said softly, her voice steady. She slid one hand over her son’s shoulder; talon-like nails painted burgundy. Grey eyes the same as her sons stayed blank, despite the polite smile curving the woman’s mouth. “It was merely an accident, no need to be so rude dear.”

            The boy, Draco, frowned sullenly. Sensing his acceptance, his mother squeezed his shoulder slightly before letting go. After picking up his bag, Draco slouched off to stand by his father; whose grip was white-knuckled around his cane.

            “I’m sorry about that dear, are you alright?” the woman asked her graciously. Though she had stumbled and stubbed her toe, Helen nodded her head. Feeling far too small in their presence, Helen was sure her face was stained red. A pale, slender hand appeared in her vision.

            “Lady Narcissa Malfoy.” The woman introduced herself, “And this is my husband, Lord Lucius Malfoy, and our son Draco.”

            Clumsily, Helen affected a curtsy. Though she had picked up a few books on wizarding social etiquette, reading about it was much more different than using it. Lady Malfoy pasted that polite smile across her face, and her husband bowed his head slightly. Beside him, Draco scowled and tipped up his nose.

            “Nice to meet you,” Helen stuttered, “I’m -,”

            “Hel!” someone cut her off and she turned, wide-eyed. Weaving her way through people, Hermione’s mane of bushy curls flew about her. Skidding to a stop, she grinned breathlessly and threw her arms around a startled Helen. Over her friend’s shoulder, she watched at Lady Malfoy’s smile became distinctly frosty.

            “We got back yesterday, and mum and dad agreed to bring me today, so we could meet up! I asked Tom where you were, and he said to check the Alley and we’ve been searching all morning and oh, I’m so glad to see you!”

            Helen was not sure how Hermione had managed to say all that without taking a single breath. Her friend beamed at her, rocking back and forth.

            “Well,” Lady Malfoy’s voice cut in. “It seems like you are in good hands now.”

Finally seeming to notice that her friend was not alone, Hermione blushed. The Malfoy’s were all tight-lipped, though Lord Malfoy’s lips curled into a sneer at Hermione’s muggle dungarees. Winding her arm through her husbands, Lady Malfoy nodded her head tightly.

            “Well, have a good day then.” She said, before sweeping her family away. The two friends, unaware of the Malfoy’s swift change in attitude, waved goodbye. It did not take long for Doctors’ Granger to find them. Her odd encounter with the flaxen family was quickly forgotten as the Granger’s told her all about their holiday. Dorset had been lovely; they had stayed in a small town near the beach and spent most of their time rock-pooling. The weather had held out well, which made Jean happy, and they went to local history museums which made Hermione happy. Giggling slightly at her friend, Helen squeezed her arm.

            “I got a few books, but we didn’t find any more places like Diagon Alley.” Hermione told her disappointedly as they wandered down the aisle of a small pawn shop on a small offshoot from the main alley. A brass sign – dented and hammered – held the sprawling words: _Khanna’s Kuriosities._ Her parents had made the girls promise to stay at the shop while they went for cake and tea. Squashed between two narrow buildings, the side street twisted convolutedly. The street was much quieter than Diagon Alley and the noise muffled, but the little pawn shop had been tucked near the very mouth.

            Floorboards creaked beneath them as they roamed. The shopkeeper, a dark-skinned woman with brown hair and glasses, sat behind the counter with a book. High walls were cluttered with shelves full of odds and ends. Gas lamps flickered from the ceiling and display cases made aisles to walk between. Neat labels were attached to everything by red string. A silver-backed hairbrush caught her eye, and Helen leant forwards.

Her breath fogged up the glass of the display cabinet, so it took several seconds for the hairbrush to come back into view. It was very old; horsehair bristles and all. The label attached to it read: _enchanted to make the user’s hair fall out, twelve galleons_. Helen raised a thick eyebrow. She shrugged at Hermione’s questioning glance, before turning to examine the rest of the shop. There was a flask that never ran cold; a whistle that would put all who heard it to sleep; a phial of poison that claimed to have been owned by a Marquis – and so many other strange and fascintating things.

“Can I help you girls with anything?”

Helen jumped. In the corner of her eye, she watched Hermione turn away from her perusal of a set of cursed sewing needles. Standing behind the counter with her hands neatly folded on top, the shopkeeper smiled. Her book lay neatly on the counter; dark eyes watching them amusedly.

“Sorry -,” Helen felt heat rise up her neck. She took a step closer to the front counter. “We’re just, just browsing.” She finished lamely and cringed. Hermione nodded rapidly. The woman hummed, still smiling.

“Well is there anything you were looking for in particular? We have quite the selection.” The woman gestured with one hand around the shop floor; a proud tilt to her lips. It was a very impressive collection, and the girls told the woman so. Inclining her head, the shopkeepers smile widened to reveal abnormally sharp teeth.

“Thank you, dears.” The shopkeeper said. Fathomless eyes flicked over Helen’s forehead. Shock rippled across the woman’s face before smoothing over. Walking out from behind the counter, her heels clicked with every step. Placing a hand on each of the girl’s shoulders, the shopkeeper smiled.

“Come, I shall show you our best pieces.”

The shopkeeper’s hand was a light but insistent presence on each girl’s shoulder as the woman steered them about. Helen particularly liked a set of small amethyst studs. She hovered uncertainly close to them while Hermione was occupied with a waltzing cauldron. Seeing this, the shopkeeper smiled and plucked the earrings up.

“They are very pretty, no?” she asked. Shaking the little gauze bag, the woman tipped them into Helen’s palm. The raw stones caught the light and twinkled in her cupped hands.

“They’re enchanted to ward off bad dreams. A low-level charm but should work on your everyday nightmares. Did you know amethyst has been used as a focus for peace for centuries?” The shopkeeper flashed the small notecard still in the bag. Cramped black lines were scribbled across the filmy paper. Helen bit her lip.

“I don’t have my ears pierced.” She admitted glumly. The earrings tumbled back into the bag and were sealed with a quick tug of white ribbon.

“Easily fixed.” The shopkeeper flashed her another sharp-toothed smile. Guiding the two girls, the shopkeeper helped them find all kinds of useful and miscellaneous things. The two friends spent quite a bit of time giggling over a set of charmed fencing sabre’s that battled down the aisles before the shopkeeper swished her wand. Locking away the sabres, she smiled.

“Perhaps you girls would like to see the backroom?” the shopkeeper asked. She waved a hand towards the counter. Adjacent to the till was a narrow doorway with a beaded curtain. Above, the words BOOKS was printed hastily onto a piece of cardboard. Hermione gripped her hand tightly. With a small chuckle, the shopkeeper held open the curtain as the two girls lunged through the dinghy doorway. There were no windows in the backroom, just towering bookshelves that reached the ceiling. Crooked ladders were staggered around haphazardly, and unopened boxes were stacked in tottering piles. Hermione made a beeline for one of the ladders. A bit more hesitant, Helen drifted around. Magnetically, her eyes kept being drawn back to the numerous boxes until she found herself standing in front of one of them.

“Everything alright?” the shopkeeper said. Helen jerked her hand back from the box as if scalded. Face burning, she twisted her sweaty hands in her robes.

“Sorry, I just –,” she stuttered, unsure as to what to say. The shopkeeper waved her off with a chortling laugh.

“Nothing wrong with curiosity, here.” She jabbed her wand, and the box lid split open. Eagerly, Helen leant over to look inside. Rows of rough-hewn logs were stacked to the brim.

“Wood?” she said, surprised. The shopkeeper beamed, and her hands squeezed the sides of the box as she leant in closer.

“Wand-wood!” the woman said with relish; a gleam in her dark eyes. Tucking her own wand back up the sleeve of her robe, the shopkeeper picked up one of the logs. It was a pale colour with darker strips of honey running through it.

“This is Acer, or more commonly known as the maple tree.” The shopkeeper looked at her intensely. “Odd that you would be drawn to this box.”

“Why is it odd?” Helen could not help but ask. The woman hummed to herself before smiling once more. Carefully, she closed up the box and sealed it with a wave of her wand. Resting her arms on the box, she gestured for Helen to lean closer.

“Everything means something, most of all with trees. You just have to look for its secrets.” The shopkeeper winked. The woman was strange, but Helen liked her all the same.

“Why do you have wand-wood?”

“My family owns a tree farm, we grow it.” The shopkeeper bared her sharp teeth. “I stock a lot of it here for selling on to Mr Ollivander. Easier than owl-order at least.”

That made sense, Helen mused. Gently, the shopkeeper pushed her towards one of the ladders. Soon, the odd wand-wood was forgotten as she became lost between yellowed pages. So absorbed with their reading, the two girls did not notice when the shopkeeper left for the front room. Nor did they hear as she dealt with other customers. Instead, the girls had become almost giddy when they realised that the little pawn shop had books that places like Flourish and Blotts did not. Hermione had let out a high-pitched shriek of happiness when she found an uncensored, older publication of _A History of Magic_. Almost immediately, she counted out the last reserves of her pocket money.

Helen was no better. Greedily, she had latched onto at least three books about the Blood War that seemed promising. She had almost started to dance with joy as she skimmed over them. Not one of the books claimed that the Death Eaters were simply a group of outliers. One of the books even went so far as to mention fascism and call them ‘terrorists’. Finally, Helen had found information that matched the facts. She was itching for her quill but steadied herself. Soon, she promised herself silently, soon she would be able to make sure her family did not die in vain.

It was as she was flipping through a different tome on runic languages, that the elder Granger’s returned. As his wife chatted to the kind young woman running the front, Robert ducked through the bead curtain. As suspected, both girls were sat on the floor with their heads in a book. Lips twitching, he cleared his throat.

It took several more tries, but eventually they heard him. Owlishly, both girls blinked. Privately, Robert mused that he would not be surprised if they could not see past the edges of their books. Hermione was the first to move. Grudgingly, she acknowledged her father. Far too used to this behaviour, Robert watched amused as his daughter clambered to her feet. Tucking the book firmly beneath her arm, she jutted her chin almost daringly out at him. He simply chuckled.

“Come on girls, we’ll take you both out to dinner.” He said. Hermione’s friend smiled shyly as she thanked him. She clutched several books to her chest, and Robert fought the urge to frown. The girl was still far too small; even with clothes that fit properly. Over the last few days and out of the way of prying ears, Jean and Robert had quietly fretted over whether or not to call child services. In the end, they had agreed to sit back and watch – Helen was safe now, and besides, they had no clue who to go to in the magical world. They would simply have to keep a sharp eye on their daughters’ first friend. Starting with a dentist appointment. Then, the opticians; because the poor girl’s glasses looked horribly out of date.

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

Helen loved the Grangers. For three days they had taken the girls touring through muggle London. From the London Eye to Camden Town, they had been everywhere. Their first stop however had been the Granger’s private dental practice in Kensington. It had been a very pretty terrace building with a fancy glass plaque. Much to the family’s relief, Helen’s teeth had been fine; despite never having been to the dentists before. The opticians were not quite so optimistic. In the end however, she had left with an updated prescription and Jean promising to pick them up for her in a few days.

On that first day, the Granger’s had arrived in time for breakfast once more. This time however, Hermione had lugged a canvas bag full of clothes with her. Helen could hardly walk around in muggle London in her robes, and Dudley’s cast-offs were simply unsuitable for anyone. So, the Granger’s had dug all the clothes Hermione no longer needed and bundled them up. Helen had almost cried. They were still hand-me-downs, but they were the nicest muggle clothes she had ever owned – and certainly no one had ever given them out of kindness.

Helen had never felt pretty before. There had always been dirt beneath her nails from pruning the Dursley’s garden and sweat upon her brow from cooking them dinner. They had never let her feel pretty. In her new jeans and wearing her new earrings (the kind lady and pierced her ears at the pawn shop for her), Helen had felt like one of the prettiest ten-year-olds in the world.

After a particularly lovely day out to Covent Garden, Helen sat in the Leaky Cauldron gulping down her pumpkin juice. Her feet ached, and she had never seen so clearly in her life (in truth it was giving her a small headache, but she was sure it would pass). Her plate sat half-eaten in front of her, but Tom was delighted. It was more than she had been able to eat when she had first stumbled into his pub after all. As quickly as it was whisked away, Tom had replaced her dinner with a bowl of warm chocolate cake and full fat cream. Reluctantly, she picked up her spoon but froze as half-a-dozen owls swept into the pub. The daily edition of The Evening Prophet being delivered was a normal occurrence. What was not so normal however, was for a rather ruffled owl to swoop over her head and drop a letter before disappearing once again.

Only Hermione ever sent her letters, and the bird that had just delivered this one was certainly not Hedwig. She put down her spoon. The envelope was made of a very thick parchment; perfectly creamy in texture with an ornate _M_ stamped into gold wax sealing it shut. There was no mistaking her name on the front. Cautiously, Helen opened the envelope. Pushing her glasses up her nose, she raised an eyebrow. Her eyebrows continued to rise as the flowing script made itself apparent.

 

_Miss H.L. Potter_

_Heir of House Potter_

_Is hereby invited to the annual_

_Ministry Ball_

_On: 21 st July, Ministry Atrium._

_Begins: six-thirty pm, dinner to be served at seven pm._

_The Atrium floo shall be open before dinner only._

_Apparition points will be set up in advance._

_Formal robes required._

_Families welcome._

Helen had no idea what half the words in the letter said. What was the floo? Or apparition? Her head swam, but most of all, she wanted to know what the _L_ in her name stood for. The Dursley’s had certainly never mentioned a middle name before. Not that they would have cared, she thought bitterly. So lost in thought, she did not notice as Tom waddled up beside her. Peering over her shoulder, he clucked his tongue.

“Mighty fancy tha party is.” He said, scratching his chin. “Only the high-ups in tha Ministry ge’ invite’ and people they wanna schmooze.”

Helen frowned; she did not like the sound of that. As regional director for Grunnings, Uncle Vernon had hosted a lot of dinner parties to schmooze clients out of their money. For Helen, that mostly meant a day of sweating over the stove and the evening stuck in her dark cupboard; having to listen as people laughed and ate her food while her stomach rumbled.

Well, her stomach never rumbled anymore. And she certainly did not live with the Dursley’s. Now, there were people who wanted to talk to her – and there was no Dudley to scare them off, or Aunt Petunia to say she was touched in the head.

“I have to go, don’t I?” she asked with a sigh. Tom nudged at her spoon pointedly. After making sure she had a good mouthful, he said gently,

“An’ whys tha little miss?”

“My family’s important,” she scrunched up her nose. “If I don’t, it will look bad on them, right?”

Tom smiled and chucked her under the chin.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

So... It's been a while. I am really sorry it's taken so long. I have a list of reasons and excuses, but I won't bore you with those.

 

* * *

 

 

            Helen was bored. Towering above her, adults swished about with crystal goblets clutched in their fists and black robes that billowed as they walked. Gauzy silk banners hung from the ceiling. Fluttering in a non-existent breeze, the gold seal of the Ministry of Magic winked at her from every corner. The floor was tiled obsidian and the decorations garish. The worst, at least to Helen, was the fountain in the middle of the Ministry Atrium. It tinkled lazily above the orchestra’s mournful music, and a plaque declared ‘ _Any and all donations shall be given to St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies’_. It was a nice thought, but the statues ruined it.

            Carved from gold, a witch and wizard stood proudly; water spouting from their outstretched wands. Around them, were several magical creatures all somehow below the witch and wizard looking up at them adoringly. A few Helen recognised from mythology, such as the centaur. She thought a goblin was more likely to slap a wizard with a fine than look so sappy. It was rather disturbing.

            Dressed in a lilac dress and sparkly shoes that Hermione had leant her, Helen was perhaps the brightest spot of colour in the whole atrium. It was a very pretty dress that made her feel like a ballerina with its tulle skirt and crepe flower along the sash. The only dress she had ever worn before, had been a school pinafore Aunt Petunia had found second-hand. She tugged at her outer robe from where it had slipped off her shoulder. Madam Malkin had promised that the silvery robe matched her new shoes and had even shown her how to tuck the flyaway hairs back into her bun so it did not unravel. Helen felt quite odd; so far, she was the only one wearing both magical and muggle clothing, and the Minister had forced to shake hands with a lot of grey-faced people.

            The Minister of Magic was a strange little man in a green bowler hat. He had almost fallen over himself when Helen had presented her invitation to the waiting wizard. Having waited quite patiently in line after stumbling from the floo, it had been quite odd to see the man with an entourage dithering by the check station. Even odder when he had insisted on shaking her hand. She had barely caught his name – Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic – before she was being herded about. Often, it seemed as if Minister Fudge was going to reach out to pat her on the shoulder but would stop halfway; seemingly unwilling to touch her.  Dinner had been a terribly dull affair sitting at the Minister’s left. The food had appeared on sparkling plates in bite-size portions but had been so rich Helen had spent most of her time poking it with a fork rather than eating.

            Growing up with the Dursley’s had prepared her for a lot of things children should never have had to learn. Not that Helen knew that. She thought it perfectly reasonable that she knew how to cook a roast dinner by age eight or know how to mix her own cleaning products better than store-bought. It was these sorts of things that she would mention casually and cause Tom to drop a tray, or the Grangers to pace late at night when their daughter was asleep. One thing that did come in handy however, was that adults never stopped talking about how important they were. Uncle Vernon did it all the time – even more when he was schmoozing. Which was the whole point of the ball Helen was coming to realise as she stifled a yawn. All these people wanted was her name; and if one more person pointed at her scar or thanked her for killing off Voldemort, well, then she was going to take a leaf out of Dudley’s book and throw a tantrum.

            It was after Minister Fudge had introduced someone from the Department for Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, and the smiling ruddy-faced man had said she was a very lucky little girl, that Helen had had enough.

            “How?” she asked unrepentantly, “My parents are dead.”

The man spluttered, and Minister Fudge bid a hasty goodbye as he ushered them along. The Minister was a very twitchy man, but a grumpy Helen seemed to make him worse. His pudgy fingers wrung the bowler hat in front of him as he tried to look above the crowd. Which was quite difficult, seeing as the Minister was perhaps only a foot and a half taller than Helen. Finally, he seemed to spot who he was looking for as his shoulders slumped dramatically and he wiped the sweat from his brow. So eager, he forget Helen as he hurried through the crowd; nodding and greeting people as he went. With nothing else to do, she slipped along behind him. Coming to a stop near his elbow, Helen was startled to see two familiar faces before her.

            “May I introduce Lord and Lady Malfoy, some of the Ministry’s greatest patrons and good friends of myself, if I do say so.” Minister Fudge babbled, his red face shining. Once again dressed in complementary robes, the deep navy was almost black and was perhaps the most cheerful colour Helen had yet seen on any adult there.

            “We are honoured to be considered a friend of the Minister.” Lady Malfoy dipped her head. Unlike the last time Helen had seen her, her flaxen hair was pulled up into a fancy knot with sparkling diamond pins holding it together. It gave her face a sharper edge; like an iceberg. Lord Malfoy was once again holding onto his cane. Up close, Helen could make out the silver filigree snakehead that topped it. The Malfoy’s eyes were fixed on her face.

            “How lovely to see you again.” Lady Malfoy said slowly, slipping one hand through the crook of her husband’s arm; nails sharp and glinting. Helen curtseyed far less awkwardly this time. The Minister looked positively delighted.

            “You’ve met?” he asked. A polite smile curled across Lady Malfoy’s face as she dug her talons into her husbands’ arm.

            “I’m afraid our introduction was, interrupted.” She said delicately. Lord Malfoy twitched; a spasm that ran across his shoulders and made a muscle in his neck jerk. Jamming his bowler hat beneath on arm, Minister Fudge seemed not to notice.

            “Well, allow me the honours.” He bounced on his toes in a flimsy imitation of a bow. Helen knew she was no expert, but even that made her wince.

            “My Lord, Lady – may I introduce Helen, Heir of House Potter.”

            The Malfoy’s had differing reactions to her name. Lady Malfoy seemed to turn to ice, her pale eyes fixed on a point far above her head. On the other hand, Lord Malfoy seemed unable to contain the self-satisfied sneer that settled across his face. It was the same sort of look old Mr Gregory from Little Whinging got when she walked the long way to school. It made her feel itchy. The Minister continues to babble on, but no one is paying attention. Lord Malfoy was attempting to get his wife’s attention, but she was steadfastly ignoring him; her lips pursed shakily. It was only after he leaned in and whispered something to her that Lady Malfoy looked at him. Helen’s breath fogged up her glasses and she shivered. Even the Minister seemed to have noticed the sudden drop in temperature as he trailed off uncertainly. Imperceptibly, Lady Malfoy dipped her. Slipping out of her husband’s tight grasp, she aimed at charming smile at the Minister.

            “That sounds wonderful Cornelius, perhaps you may expand on your plans while you accompany me to get a drink?” she said politely. Mollified, the Minister nearly tripped over his own feet as he led the statuesque woman away. Helen watches as they get swallowed by the crowd. Turning back around, she jumps slightly as Lord Malfoy was suddenly towering above her. Cold grey eyes looked down at her blankly.

            “This must be all very overwhelming for you.” He drawled, unblinkingly. Helen shifted on her feet and shrugged. Nearby, a woman laughed shrilly, and crystal chimed as goblets clinked together.

            “So many people,” Lord Malfoy continued, “So much to live up to.”

His unwavering gaze made her feel small. It was a very different kind of small than she was used to. The Dursley’s had been loud with their anger, always ready to lash out; she would curl up with her arms over head in the darkest corner she could find. This was cold and withering. Helen was unsure how to deal with it.

            “Perhaps, I can be of assistance as you navigate through the delicate nuances of our society. Perhaps, we could even help each other.” Lord Malfoy’s voice was smooth and his eyes cold. Dead, she thought, like a shark.

            “How?” Helen could not help asking. What may have passed as a grimace for anyone else seemed to be Lord Malfoy’s attempt at a smile.

            “Simple, I can mentor you. All you must do, is give me your name.” he said, sipping at his wine.

            “My name is Helen.”

            “Well, yes.” Lord Malfoy seemed almost taken aback. “But I mean your true name.”

            “That is my name.” she said. Perhaps she had been wrong about Lord Malfoy. He looked so befuddled by her insistence that Helen wondered if he had some sort of learning difficulty. Perhaps that was why Lady Malfoy had been so reluctant to leave them. It was with her reappearance and the Minister’s jovial red face that Helen was able to slip away. Being small and quick had some advantages. Easily, she weaved her way through the crowds until the only sign of her left was the slight swishing of cloaks behind her.

            Idly, Helen made her way towards the orchestra. A few of the instruments she recognised – like the cello and the piano – but there were some she did not. One man was playing what looked like a flute, except it had three pipes extending at an angle from the mouthpiece. Another was even holding a rather large toad that would ribbit very deeply at certain intervals. Helen giggled. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a flash of orange. Turning, she craned her neck to find it again. There – a boy, around her own age, with bright orange hair was standing by the drinks table miserably. Unlike anyone else she had seen at the ball, he wore muggle clothes beneath his threadbare green robes.

            Excited to finally see someone her own age, Helen did not think as she made a beeline straight for him. He was much taller in person – though she was very short – and his long nose was sprinkled with freckles. She beamed up at him.

            “Hi – I’m Helen.” She said, rocking back and forth on her toes. The boy blinked, startled.

            “Er, hi. I’m Ron – Ron Weasley.” he tacked on quickly as his ears reddened. His robes hang off his lanky frame and hung a few inches from the ground. Helen did not care.

She had worn worse at the Dursley’s after all.

            “I don’t know anyone here. Can I stay with you?” she asked. Ron blinked hurriedly again, before a slow, shy smile spread across his face.

            “Sure.” He enthused. “I dunno anyone either – ‘cept my dad.”

             He pointed towards a small knot of people. Unlike most of the people the Minister had introduced her too, these people were laughing freely, their smiles genuine. A tall man with thinning red hair was waving his hands enthusiastically as he spoke.

            “How come no one else is wearing muggle clothes?” Helen asked curiously. Indeed, Ron and his dad were the first people she had seen at the ball also wearing a jumble of magical and muggle clothing.

            “Dunno.” Ron shrugged. “Dad works in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. We’ve always worn both.”

            Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked down at his feet awkwardly. Helen was not deterred.

            “Your dad works here? Have you seen his office?”

            “Yeah – its pretty small though.” The top of Ron’s ears pinked. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flash of golden grilles. She worried her bottom lip; squirming in burgeoning excitement.

            “Do you know which floor?” she asked. For a moment, Ron looked down at her in confusion before he caught her not-so-subtle head jerk. His face cleared and a great, lopsided grin spread across his face at the sight of the lift. Unable to stifle their giggles, the two of them stole across the floor. Tumbling ungracefully, they ducked dramatically between amused adults before reaching the lifts. There was a bank of them – all gleaming so Helen could see her warped reflection. Ron pulled back the grille, and the two slipped inside. there was an oak-handled lever on the inside, and with a great crank, they were off.

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

            They did not find the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Upon realising that the lift did not only go up and down, but side to side, Helen had become overexcited. Zealously, she had gripped the lever and yanked it in every way she could. Finally, they stopped at a floor. Ron exited; his face green. It took several minutes for him to regain his colour, and he pushed off the wall; eyes wide and unblinking. Helen was buzzing. Before them lay rows upon rows of desks. The lanterns were dim; casting a soft orange glow over hardwood floors and green tiles. Most of the desks were organised neatly with piles of paperwork in little cubicles all lined up.

            As curious as any children would be, Helen and Ron immediately began to rifle through them. parchment seemed to be glued together in relevant folders – their contents advertised on front in block letters and a string of numbers. Squinting, Ron pulled one so close that the parchment was perhaps an inch from his very long nose.

            “I think,” he started slowly, and turned the file sideways. “this is the DMLE.”

            “What?” Helen said, eyes glued to the parchment in front of her. Seated comfortably at the desk, she looked up.

            “You know – the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. The Auror office has got to be here somewhere.” Ron turned away from the desks, his eyebrows raised in interest. As he went off to snoop, Helen buried herself back into the folders. One file near the bottom caught her eye. Block letters on the front read TO BE RELEASED 27/08/1991. Curiosity itched in the back of her brain and she could not help opening the folder. Jumping out at her, where own name was splashed across the top of the file. Skimming over it, a small smile tugged at her lips. Mr Renshaw had been ruthless. Pleased, she closed the file and set it back in its place. Further down the corridor, a head of fluffy ginger hair popped around a door.

            “I was right! Come on Helen!” Ron called, beckoning furiously. Slipping down from the chair, she rushed over. The Auror office was a maze of cluttered desks and stalls. Red cloaks emblazoned with a shield of two wands over the Ministry logo were flung across walls and chairs. Ron was picking his way through the mess before he stopped. Tugging on a relatively clean-smelling cloak, he clasped it around his shoulders. Looking to her, Ron stuck out his chin and grinned. The cloak practically swallowed him whole and gathered around his feet in a pool of fabric. Helen giggled.

            “You look great!” she said, amused as he pranced about the room; swishing the Auror cloak behind him as if they were crimson wings. As Ron continued to jump about the room, Helen drifted towards one of the desks. Folders were piled haphazardly and in no semblance of order. Picking one up by random, she opened it and gasped.

            “Hey Ron – look at this!”

            Tripping over his cloak, Ron stumbled to her side. Peering over her shoulder, his long nose scrunched up as he read slowly.

            “Cor blimey – are these the Death Eater trials?” he asked. They were. Mugshots of various witches and wizards glared up at them in black and white. Fascinated, Helen watched as the magical photos writhed and spat at them – some crying out wordlessly. They were much livelier than any photographs she had seen. Names flashed before their eyes as Helen flipped though the folders; Rooke, Brambury, Lestrange, Avery, Crouch, Higgins, Henderson – there were so many. A morbid kind of curiosity wormed its way through her mind, and she hesitated on opening their personal files. Ron’s hand clamped down on her arm. Helen jumped so suddenly that her glasses slid to the end of her nose. Calming her racing heart, she turned to him ready to speak, when he shook his head violently; still not looking at her.

            “Shh – someone’s coming.” He hissed. His gaze was glued to the end of the corridor; in the direction of the lift. Frowning, Helen titled her head, but she could neither see nor hear anything except for his slightly heavy breathing. Still, Ron seemed so serious and grave, that she doubted he was making fun of her.

            Carefully, she replaced the folder she had picked up and backed away from the desk. Ron stayed at her side the entire time. His gangly fingers were pulling urgently at the cloak clasps, but in his desperation, they were simply becoming more tangled. Batting away his hands, Helen helped him wiggle out of the Auror cloak. Abandoning it on a lone chair, Helen turned to climb under a desk.

            “No, they’ll look there first.” Ron shook his head. Grasping her hand, he tugged her past the stalls and out of the Auror office altogether. Used to running from Dudley and his gang, Helen was well-practised in keeping up with people who had longer legs. Even so, she was puffing and red-faced by the time Ron hid them both in a supply closet. Crouching low, he left the door ajar so a small sliver of yellow light lit up half his face as he peered out. They had a perfect view of the Auror office. Together, they watched with bated breath as a man finally came into view. Whistling, he walked jauntily to a desk, then paused. The man took two steps over to the neighbouring desk and frowned. Helen and Ron held their breath. The man bent forwards and picked up a half-open file, before glancing up. Taking his wand out, the man tucked the file beneath one arm and began to creep through the office. The man looked beneath several desks and inside the stalls before putting his wand away. Shaking his head, the man stomped back to the desk.

            “Damn Dawlish,” they heard him mutter gruffly. “Leaving this sorta thing just lyin’ about…”

            He continued to grumble to himself as he turned and slowly left the Auror office. Only once they heard the ding of the lift leaving did they breathe. Unable to hide her grin, Helen turned to an equally ecstatic Ron.

            “That was lucky.” He said, relief clear on his pale face. Pushing open the door he stomped out and peered both ways down the corridor. Helen followed.

            “Here, do you know what the time is?” he asked. Instinctively, she looked up, and then frowned. There were no stars visible in the Ministry building to guide her. Shrugging helplessly, she twisted her fingers in the tulle of her skirt.

            “I dunno, but the ball has to end soon.” She said hopefully. Ron seemed to brighten at this as well.

            “We should probably go check – my dad might be worried.”

Helen agreed and the two quite happily headed for the lift. As they waited, Ron seemed to shift on his feet.

“So, who did you come with?” he asked, as if just realising.

“I came by myself. My family’s dead.” She said quite matter-of-factly. Ron stopped fidgeting. His eyes seemed to have grown twice as wide and the tips of his ears were red.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted out, then cringed.

“It’s alright,” Helen smiled and decided to take pity on the obviously panicking boy. “Are all your family wizards?”

Rom seemed to be relieved and jumped at the change in conversation.

“Yeah. Every year before someone starts Hogwarts, Dad brings us to the Ministry Ball as a treat before we go, I guess.” He said, and scuffed his shoe. The lift dinged and the metal grilled pulled back to let them in. Planting himself quite firmly in front of the lever, Ron levelled a look at her that he had clearly used before. Torn between grinning and pouting, Helen stayed away from the lever as he set them on a straight course for the Atrium.

“That’s nice.” She said; then, unable to help herself, tacked on: “You’re going to Hogwarts this year?”

The gold grille cast odd shadows as they whooshed past floors. Ron seemed to both shrink into himself and puff up with pride. It was an odd thing to see.

“Yup, everyone in my family has been to Hogwarts. My sister will start next year.” He gave an odd half-grin half-shrug. The tips of his ears were still red.

“I’m going to Hogwarts this year as well.” Helen told him excitedly. Ron’s whole face lit up.

“Really?” His smile was getting bigger. “Maybe, we could go get our school stuff together then?”

“As long as my friend Hermione can come.” Helen said, and Ron nodded vigorously. They were both grinning as the lift let out a soft ding and the grille drew back. Nobody seemed to notice as they bounced out into the Atrium. There were noticeably less people than last time. This was both a good and bad thing, Helen thought. Less people meant she could leave, but the garish decorations were much more visible and made her cringe. Ron seemed to share the same opinion. Tugging on the arm of her robe, he pulled her along; unwilling to lose her in the thong of people still left.

“Ron – there you are!” a beaming redheaded man waved them over. His robes were well-loved much like his son’s, and he wore a very old muggle corduroy suit beneath them. This was clearly where Ron got his height from, Helen thought as she craned her neck upwards. She smiled politely.

“I was just about to come looking for you.” Mr Weasley said to his son. “I promised your mother we wouldn’t be too late. Have you had fun?”

Ron’s smile almost split his face, and he glanced quickly at Helen. Mr Weasley raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Yeah – it’s been fun.” Ron agreed. “Dad, this is Helen. She’s gonna start Hogwarts as well.”

Helen curtsied daintily. Mr Weasley’s other eyebrow shot up, but he smiled kindly down at her.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr Weasley.”  She said. He returned the sentiment with a small bow that made his son snort. Tugging on a thread in his robes, Ron pushed on.

“Dad, can we do my school shopping with Helen and her friend?”

“I don’t see why not son.” Mr Weasley rocked back on his heels and watched pleased, as the two children promised to owl one another. Waving goodbye, Helen could not stop smiling as she watched Ron and his dad disappear in a burst of green flames.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

So, a few people have been asking about the whole Malfoy/name scene in the last chapter and just want to say that it is part of the plot. Its explained in this chapter, but its based off of European legend about witches. People thought that giving your name to a witch meant they could control you, which is why we have middle names. This will be important throughout. Just wanted to let you guys know that it has been thought out lol.

* * *

 

Aine Renshaw was a no-nonsense sort of woman. It was obvious the minute Helen stepped into her office. Everything was neat and tidy; sharp corners and polished surfaces. A dowdy woman with grey speckling her temples, she none-the-less smiled as Helen shifted in her seat. Her chin barely reached the desktop. Bryce Renshaw – who she had spoken to previously – sat to the left of his mother with his legs crossed. He nodded reassuringly at her, and Helen stopped twitching; her fingers reaching up once to push her glasses back up her sweaty nose.

“It is wonderful to meet you Miss Potter. May I just say that this firm is, once again, pleased to be representing your family.” Mrs Renshaw said.

                “Thank you.” Helen said unsurely; the urge to fidget itching at her fingertips. Mrs Renshaw hummed in the back of her throat and looked sideways. Without any prompting, Mr Renshaw opened the folder on his lap and smoothly passed his mother a file.

                “I have been over the firm’s record of your previous visit,” Mrs Renshaw looked up from the file, “May I presume that you are still happy with the business you discussed?”

Helen nodded enthusiastically; her green eyes lighting up.

                “Perfect.” Mrs Renshaw smiled. “I assure you we will have significant results in the next few months.”

                Mrs Renshaw linked her hands and smiled warmly. Crow’s feet appeared around her deep-set eyes, highlighting a liver spot near her ear. It gave the older woman a much more human appearance than her professionalism dictated. Helen felt herself relax back into the leather armchair.

                “Now,” she began delicately, “I understand that you were given a copy of your parents will as well as all standard documentation. Have you had any chance to go over anything?”

                Helen’s face burned. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she furiously willed away the tears that pricked her eyes. Over her head, mother and son exchanged knowing glances. Shuffling her desk around, Mrs Renshaw leant forwards and cleared her throat,

            “It’s quite alright Miss Potter. Most people find it too difficult to go through such things. That’s why we are here.”

            Shyly, Helen peeked out from under her fringe. The Renshaw’s politely ignored her as she scrubbed her face. Clearing her throat once more, Mrs Renshaw placed a folded piece of parchment before her.

            “This here is the firm’s copy of your parents will. Usually such things are sealed until an official reading of the will can occur, but given the circumstances, we have had to forego such a meeting. Are you happy with this?” Mrs Renshaw hiked up a pencil-thin eyebrow. Helen gave a short nod, and they briskly moved on. In the corner, Mr Renshaw had once again conjured an acid-green quill that was darting maniacally across floating parchment.

            “Now, most of what has been left to you is standard, and also filed within Gringotts – vaults, properties, any business relationships, etcetera.” Here, Mrs Renshaw hesitated. Butterflies erupted in Helen’s stomach as she watched her solicitors exchange a grim look. Turning back to her client, Mrs Renshaw pursed her lips.

            “However, there is one item in your parents will, that merits some looking into – your guardianship.”

Mr Renshaw coughed into his hand. His mother looked down at Helen severely. For almost a full minute, the only sound was the tick-tock of the grandfather clock. She could have sworn that the floating quill was vibrating. Finally, Mrs Renshaw leant forwards to tap the folded parchment.

“According to your parents will, you were supposed to be placed into the care of a Mr Sirius Black and a Mr Remus Lupin, individually or together; or Mr and Mrs Frank and Alice Longbottom.” A muscle in Mrs Renshaw’s jaw twitched. “I must ask Miss Potter, but who is your current guardian?”

Helen thought someone must have clamped an iron band around her chest. She could not breathe. The band cinched tighter around her chest as she opened her mouth; short little puffs of air the only thing to escape. She continued to heave – her small body jittering with the effort. A glass of water was thrust under her nose. Greedily, she gulped it down. Her spindly hands clutched the glass until condensation coated her fingers.

“I, I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron.” She gasped through watery eyes.

“I understand that Miss Potter,” Mrs Renshaw’s voice was soft as the adults gazed almost pityingly at her. “But regardless of where you are staying, your current guardian is still responsible for your wellbeing.”

Helen’s lip trembled. Her fingers were turning white with how hard she was clutching the glass of water.

“My aunt – Petunia and Vernon Dursley. But I’m not going back!” She burst out; her breath once more coming out in stuttered gasps. Mrs Renshaw’s face twitched, until her mask broke completely. Reaching across the desk, she kept her voice low and eyes determined.

“I can promise you now Miss Potter, that no one at this firm will ever make you do something that compromises your safety.”

Carefully, Mrs Renshaw watched as her young client gulped down enough air that her lungs rattled, before prying the glass of water from her hands.

“Now Miss Potter, I say this as a concerned adult and not your solicitor, but you should have someone that you trust looking after you.”

In the corner, Mr Renshaw nodded sharply. Leaning back, Mrs Renshaw picked up an article.

“Unsurprisingly, the Potter’s employed several house-elves to manage their many properties.”

Mrs Renshaw slid the parchment over. Helen’s eyebrows reached her hairline. On the parchment there was listed at least six different estates; all with the addresses, square footage, and which house-elf maintained which properties written down neatly. There were four house-elves named. Helen squinted. The parchment shimmered. Tilting it one way and then the next, she watched fascinated as the words on the page blurred in and out of focus.

“Why does it do that?” she wondered aloud.

“To protect your properties Miss Potter.” Mr Renshaw spoke. He shifted in his seat before continuing,

“And of course, as a safeguard as it contains the names of your house-elves.”

It made sense, yet Helen was still confused.

“What about their names?” she asked curiously. A sort of resigned look passed between the adults, yet Helen was too busy marvelling at the parchment in her hands. Pursing her lips, Mrs Renshaw said,

“Names hold great power. That is why, when a child is born, the parents will give both an Official Name, and a True Name. An Official Name will be the one you use in day-to-day interactions and in documents for example.” Mrs Renshaw waved a hand around the office casually.

 “While a True Name is something only the family and those the person trusts completely, will know. It is this name that you must guard passionately.”

Suddenly, Helen felt very small. Hunching her shoulders, her grip tightened on the parchment.

“What if someone doesn’t know their True Name – or doesn’t have one?” she asked quietly. Sparks seemed to escape Mrs Renshaw’s eyes.

“There will be an official record kept in your family home.” Mr Renshaw said kindly. He leant over and tapped the very first address on the parchment. The knot in her stomach loosened slightly, and she gave a shaky smile.

“Now,” he shuffled comfortably in his seat. “I would suggest calling a house-elf to determine the state of your house.”

Helen nodded firmly and brandished the parchment out in front of her with gusto. Taking a deep breath, she called:

“Spuds!”

            Nothing happened. They waited for a full minute, before the adults suggested she try again. So, she did. Again, nothing happened. Helen frowned and lowered the parchment. The adults had turned to one another and were discussing in low voices, when there was a loud crack. A female house-elf appeared. Dressed in a white cotton dress, she wore a chequered tea-towel as an apron. Her long ears drooped close to her shoulders, and muddy brown eyes were watering as she twisted her hands in her lap. Slowly, the house-elf raised her eyes to meet surprised emerald, before she broke down and began wailing.

            Frozen, Helen’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly as the house-elf wrapped herself around her legs. She was nearly pulled out of her seat, but luckily, she grabbed onto the chair just in time. Panicked, she looked for help, but the adults were simply watching the scene – torn between concern and amusement. From where she was clinging to Helen’s legs like a limpet, the house-elf tried to speak between great sobs.

            “Oh Miss Helen – we is so sorry!” the house-elf continued to cry, and no amount of shushing Helen did seemed to calm her down.

            “It’s okay,” she said lamely; patting the house-elf on the back. Slowly, the house-elf calmed down enough to stand on her own. Wiping her face on her tea-towel, the house-elf smiled waveringly up at Helen.

            “Spuds?” She ventured. The house-elf’s ears wilted.

            “I is Macy, Miss Helen. Spuds died, but I’s felt you calling him and came.”

            Helen frowned and awkwardly reached out to pat Macy’s shoulder as she sniffed into her tea-towel once more.

            “I’m sorry,” she offered uncomfortably, but it seemed to work as Macy’s face lit up. Clearing her throat, Mrs Renshaw gained their attention. Helen blinked. She had forgotten that they were not alone in the office.

            “I am very sorry for your loss,” Mrs Renshaw started, “but I am afraid that we called as Miss Potter wished to know the state of the family home.”

            Macy straightened as much as her tiny body would allow, though her lower lip continued to tremble.

            “We has been locked out of Cressdale since Spuds died.” She said, then turned hopeful lamp-like eyes to Helen. “But with Miss Helen’s permission, we can go looks after it for you.”

            Helen nodded vigorously and Macy beamed.

            “I’ve paid to stay at the Leaky Cauldron until I go off for Hogwarts,” she said. “but if its ready for holidays and stuff, that would be nice.”

            “We will make the house perfect for Miss Helen.” Macy vowed, her bat-like ears flapping as she wiggled in excitement. “If Miss ever need anything, she just call our names.”

With one last great smile, Macy disappeared with a pop.

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

            Hours later, Helen chomped down impatiently on a chicken sandwich. Around her, the pub bustled with the lunchtime rush. Every now and then, Tom would swerve towards her table and gently push her back down into her chair from where she hovered in excitement. Noise was abundant as people laughed and ate together and there were many strange and wonderful sights to see, yet Helen’s gaze was torn between the door and the fireplace. Every time green flared in her vision, or she heard the creak of the door, she would jump up in her seat.

            Finally, the Grangers arrived. The family of three trudged through the door – Doctor Granger still wearing her dentists’ smock. It took several seconds, but once Hermione saw Helen waving frantically, she was racing across the pub floor. The two girls collided in a fierce hug. Beaming, Doctor and Doctor Granger trailed after their daughter.

            Practically vibrating with excitement, the girls untangled themselves and immediately began comparing their Hogwarts’ letters. The heavy parchment had turned up a few days before; carried by a most magnificent-looking post owl. Hedwig had not been impressed. The curling green handwriting matched both the girls’ letters, yet there was no mistaking who they were meant for. Embossed on the creamy envelope was a rather uncanny address:

 

_Miss H. Potter,_

_Room Thirty-Seven,_

_The Leaky Cauldron,_

_Diagon Alley,_

_London._

 

Hermione’s envelope was even stranger – it named which bedroom she slept in! Helen had hardly believed her luck when the letter arrived. Only communicating with Ron and Hermione had convinced her it was real. Even then, it was nothing compared to the balm that washed through her at seeing Hermione’s identical letter. So occupied with comparing their letters, they missed the green flash of the floo flaring.

Soot dusting his robes, Ron Weasley tumbled out of the fireplace. Behind him, the floo lit up four more times before dying down. A relative gaggle of people – all with the same shock of bright orange hair – began to pat each other down; sending puffs dust and soot into the air. It was this commotion that finally dragged the girls out of their little bubble. Helen blinked and as the dust cleared, Ron’s face swam before her; ears red and an anxious smile tugging at his lips.

“Ron!” she exclaimed, waving him over frantically. His whole body seemed to sag in relief before he bounced over to join them. Helen did not notice as her two friends eyed each other warily, too excited as she was to introduce everyone.

“Hello Mr Weasley.” She greeted happily. With his arm around who could only be his wife, Mr Weasley beamed down at her. His wife was a short woman, with a smiling round face and kind eyes.

“Hello,” he said kindly. “Dear, this is Helen. Helen, this is my wife Molly, and that there is Ginny, and the twins Fred and George.”

Mr Weasley raised his eyebrows amusedly to his left, where the other three were whispering together. Mrs Weasley rolled her eyes exasperatedly.

“Its lovely to meet you dear,” she said kindly. “I’m so glad Ronnie found some friends who are going to be in the same year.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well Mrs Weasley.” Helen said politely, curtseying as she did so. Much like her husband had when they first met, Mrs Weasley looked mildly shocked at the formality.

            “This is my friend Hermione, and her parents Doctor and Doctor Granger.”

            “Please, call us Robert and Jean.”

            Stepping forwards from where they had been hanging back, Hermione and her parents reached out to shake the Weasley’s hands. Mr Weasley looked as if Christmas had come early. Enthusiastically, he pumped Doctor Granger’s hand and exclaimed,

            “Why, but you’re muggles!”

            “Er yes,” Doctor Granger said amusedly as Mr Weasley continued to shake his hand. Mrs Weasley simply looked resigned to her husband’s behaviour and though she tried to apologise, the Granger’s simply waved her off.

            “Honestly, it’s a bit of relief to know you are all wizards.” Doctor Granger told her, tossing her dreadlocks over her shoulder. “Its fantastic knowing Hermione is a witch of course and we couldn’t be happier, but we are a bit out of our depth.”

            The two women exchanged small laughs and Mrs Weasley relaxed. Clutching her bag to her front, Mrs Weasley pursed her lips hesitantly before asking,

            “Might I ask what that that word was – dotter was it?”

            For a second Doctor Granger blinked confusedly, before Hermione chipped in. Eager as always, Hermione had been hovering between her mother and Helen. For her part, Helen was torn between listening to the adults and Ron as he chattered on about something called quidditch. She was a bit lost though, as he was talking so fast that she was only catching every third word or so.

            “Doctor, Mrs Weasley. My parents are dentists.” Hermione said proudly. At the Weasley’s politely nonplussed looks – for Mr Weasley had finished shaking with excitement – she continued hurriedly, her face screwed up in concentration.

            “They look after people’s teeth. It’s a kind of specialist muggle healer.” She tacked on, and the confusion cleared on the faces before her. Even the Weasley’s many children had stopped to listen; their curiosity piqued. Only Ron was still talking, though only marginally. His voice decreasing in volume as his attention was pulled elsewhere.

            “How exciting!” Mr Weasley exclaimed, leaning forwards. “Is it considered a particularly dangerous profession?”

            Seeing that they had the Weasley’s rapt attention, the Granger’s exchanged a bemused look. Ron had finally trailed off, his mouth hanging slightly open. Coughing into his hand, Doctor Granger blustered a little;

            “Well not really, but you have got to be wary that sometimes the younger patients tend to bite.”

            The Granger’s chortled slightly. Mr Weasley seemed to be vibrating on the spot. It was only his wife’s hand on his arm, Helen suspected, that stopped him from exploding with questions.

            “Well,” Mrs Weasley said. “I’m sure we could stand here all day and talk, but I think we should probably get on with the shopping no?”

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

            After much discussion, it was decided that the Granger’s and Mrs Weasley would take the three friends to Ollivander’s so that the girls could get their wands. As the girls already had their books, Mr Weasley was taking their other children to Flourish and Blotts. They would all meet at three o’clock for tea at a cute little teashop that Helen and the Grangers had discovered on one of their many trips down the alley.

            Waving goodbye, Helen was content to take in the sights around them as her friends trotted at her side. The adults trailed behind them. Unbeknownst to the children, the Granger’s were informing Mrs Weasley of what they suspected of Helen’s childhood. Being the kind-hearted people that they were, Mr and Mrs Weasley had of course noticed that the young girl was severely underweight, but the Granger’s confirmation was horrifying. Helen hummed happily, blissfully unaware. Beside her, Hermione eyed Ron critically.

            “You’re so lucky.” She sighed eventually, startling the poor boy.

“What?” he asked. He blinked confusedly in the sun. Already, the bridge of his freckled nose was turning red. A harried shopper jostled by them and Helen would have tripped if her friends had not seized her under the arms.

“You’ve already got a wand.” Hermione said exasperatedly over Helen’s head. Neither even noticed as they worked together to place their small friend back on her feet. Helen felt her whole face burn.

“Uh, well yeah. But its only my brother’s old one.” Ron scratched the back of his head. His nose was dangerously reaching the same colour as the tips of his ears. The sun was particularly strong, and Helen was glad she had decided to wear a t-shirt and shorts. Privately though, she agreed with Hermione. To be able to have something that her family had owned – especially one of their wands – well, she would have given up all the gold in her vault. At least now she had a house, she consoled herself silently.

True to fashion, Hermione seemed to not notice Ron’s bemusement as she continued to interrogate him all down the street. For his part, Ron seemed half-fascinated and half-stunned by the idea that they were interested in what he said. Eventually though, the adults had to break up Hermione’s interrogation as they hurried them through the dark opening of Ollivander’s. Shortly before she was hustled inside, Helen caught a glimpse of the sign; _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ Compared to outside, the almost clammy cold of the shop was a relief. She could feel the sweat that had begun to gather at the back of her neck cool. Shelves lined with thin, narrow boxes lined the walls and towered above them. A single oil lamp sat on a desk in the middle of the room. The only other light streamed through the dusty shopfront windows.

Settling herself comfortably on one of the provided chairs, Mrs Weasley pulled Ron down beside her. Reluctantly, he sat with his chin propped up on his fist. The Granger’s followed their lead. A muffled bang made them all jump. From behind the desk, a figure emerged. They hurried along the narrow corridor until their pale face was illuminated the orange glow of the lamp.

“How wonderful,” they said. “New customers. Come, come.”

The old man, for they could see him now, beckoned the girls over to the desk. Flyaway white hair stuck up around his head, and his rheumy eyes glowed silver as he gazed almost unseeingly at them. One hand fiddle with the purple ascot around his throat as he shuffled around; taking boxes down from their places to line them neatly on the desk. Finished, he crooked a gnarled finger at Hermione.

“What’s your name dear? First year I take it?” he asked. Bravely, she stepped forwards. Helen thought it was definitely done with guts, as the old man was creepy.

“Yes sir. My name is Hermione Granger.” Hermione said. The old man hummed and nodded his head slowly.

“Well met Miss Granger, I am Garrick Ollivander. It’s always a pleasure to help a young witch or wizard begin their journey into magical education.” Ollivander smiled waveringly, but then again, he did not seem to do anything with substance. Helen was almost afraid the poor man would simply collapse into a puddle. Bolstered, Hermione smiled back and reached out for the first box. Inside was a plain-looking wand with a knot at the end.

“Twelve and a half inches,” Ollivander said as she picked it up. “Chestnut, with a unicorn hair core. Give it a wave Miss Granger.”

Helen watched as she did so, yet nothing happened. Hermione frowned, and before Ollivander could move, tossed her hair back and prodded the wand more viciously. This time, the boxes on the shelf opposite her rattled and a few fell down. Startled, Hermione dropped the wand back into its box.

“No harm done,” Ollivander said as he waved his own wand at the mess. “Now, that was close yes, but not quite. Now was it the wood or the wand core, hmm?”

He continued to mutter to himself as he examined the unopened boxes left. Ron raised his eyebrows at the girls when they looked back at him and mimed that the man was crazy. Thy tried to hide their giggles, though Helen was inclined to agree. Ollivander did seem to have a few screws loose. Eventually, Ollivander seemed to come to a decision and held out a second wand for Hermione to try.

“This is vine wood and unicorn hair, ten and three-quarter inches. Give it a whirl Miss Granger.”

Warily, Hermione gripped the much more delicate looking wand. Shorter and thinner than the last one, this wand was tinged green and had small vines carved from the base to tip. Amusedly, Helen thought that her friend looked as if she was going off to war, with how grim her face was as she brandished the wand. This time, a bouquet of flowers exploded from the tip of the wand, and the adults behind them began to clap excitedly.

“Oh brava!” Ollivander cried wheezily. “Yes, I do believe we’ve found your wand.”

Helen hugged her friend excitedly, and from where he sat, Ron flashed a thumbs up. Delighted, Hermione clutched her wrapped wand tightly and sat with her beaming parents. Mrs Weasley patted her on the shoulder in congratulations.

It felt like eagles were swooping around in her stomach when Ollivander gestured for her to step up to the desk. The old shopkeeper hummed to himself as he studied her, and Helen held her breath. Slowly, he inclined his head and she responded in kind with a curtsey.

“I’ve been wondering when I would see you here, Miss Potter.”

Somewhere behind her, Mrs Weasley squeaked and there was an odd thump sound; later, Helen would learn that it was Ron, who had fallen off his chair.

“I remember when your parents came in here, yes. Fine people, fine people.” Ollivander murmured. Silvery eyes locked onto to hers, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

“Your father favoured a mahogany wand, while your mother willow. Good wands, if I do say so myself.” Ollivander cleared his throat.

“I do hope you manage to find them. Such things are often imprints of the people left behind, after all.”

Numbly, Helen watched as the old shopkeeper turned away and began to peruse the shelves around them.

“No two wands are the same of course, and though families pass on some traits and values, this does not mean that they necessarily share similar wands. Aha.” Ollivander gave a soft grunt as he tottered back towards her. Unsheathing a wand, he held it out to her. Feeling a little foolish, Helen rolled the black wand between her fingers.

“Black walnut and dragon heartstring. Give it a whirl Miss Potter.”

Again, there was an odd sound from behind her; like a dog’s chew toy being stepped on. She ignored it. Taking a deep breath, Helen pointed the wand at the lamp. For a second nothing happened, but then the lamp began to grow brighter and brighter until, with great horror, Ollivander shouted,

“Duck!”

Years of practise dodging the Dursley’s kicked in, and Helen was flat against the dusty floorboards. Above her, the lamp began to spark until finally, it exploded; raining glass over their huddled forms. Slowly, they stood back up and Helen gaped horrified at what she had done. The lamp was smoking. Nothing was left except its metal carcass. Hot oil dripped down onto the wooden desktop. She dropped the wand with a clatter.

“I’m so sorry!” she gasped out, hands shaking. The air in her lungs was disappearing, and all she could hear was Aunt Petunia’s shrill scream from when she had dropped the prize pudding for the summer fete two years ago. With Mrs Weasley’s help, Ollivander manged to undo the damage in record time.

“No harm done. Simply not the wand for you Miss Potter.” He said, already opening another box. Helen was still trembling. Reluctantly, she took the proffered wand. With a sharp wave, boxes shot across the room. The third wand was barely in her hand before Ollivander snatched it back, muttering to himself. This continued for some time, yet the old shopkeeper seemed to gain life with each disastrous attempt.

“Tricky customer eh? Not to worry, never failed to match a wand before!” he cried. His voice seemed to have lost its frail quality and he practically bounced around the shop floor; pulling down boxes with gusto. Exhausted, Helen had almost given up that there was a wand for her. Ollivander was of a different opinion. The pile of boxes before her grew, yet not one suited her. Finally, the old wandmaker pulled a dusty box from a backroom. The wand inside was a dark brown, and unlike some of the wands she had tried before, was not particularly fancy. The grain of the wood whorled in caramel swirls along the polished wand, and there was a slight hitch where it flowed into a grip where her hand fit neatly. Presenting the box to her, Ollivander nodded encouragingly. His silvery eyes glowed knowingly, and Helen gulped.

“Eleven inches, made of holly wood with a phoenix feather core.”

The wand was warm in her palm, and she breathed out slowly. With a swish of her wrist, Helen jabbed the wand. Gold sparks showered from the tip of the wand and a burst of warmth started at her toes and rushed up through her body until she felt lightheaded.

“Brava! Brava!” Ollivander cried. Ron and Hermione jumped up from their seats in excitement. A grin threatened to split her face as she turned to face them.

“Yes, well done indeed.” Ollivander carefully took the wand back from her. “Curious, very curious however…”

The wandmaker seemed to shrink back into himself as he shuffled around, wrapping the wand up curiously. Adrenaline slowly drained from her body, as she watched Ollivander mutter to himself.

“What’s curious?” Helen heard herself ask. The itch at the back of her head was almost unbearable, though silently she dreaded knowing. Those lamp-like eyes landed on her again.

“Curious that this wand would choose you Miss Potter.” Ollivander said. “The phoenix that gave the feather for your core, gave only one other – to You-Know-Who.”

Mrs Weasley gave off a small shriek. Even Ron was pale beneath his freckles. It felt like the bottom had dropped out of Helen’s stomach. The floor seemed to spin beneath her feet, and a cold sweat formed along her brow. She did not know whether it was fear or anger that burned in her chest, but she was leaning towards the latter.

“Voldemort.”

Mrs Weasley shrieked again, and there was a thump as Ron tripped over the chair. Helen’s eyes never left the wandmaker.

“You are braver than most people Miss Potter; me included.” Ollivander said. He carefully wrapped her wandbox in brown paper.

“He doesn’t scare me.”

Silvery eyes swept over the small, yet defiant girl with a softness that she would learn to recognise.

“No. I dare say you have faced much worse.” he murmured to himself. The wandmaker handed over her wand and bid them farewell. Clutching it to her chest, Helen barely noticed as Ron and Hermione sidled up on either side to brace her. Ahead of them, Mrs Weasley was hurriedly explaining what had happened to the Granger’s in quiet tones. The teashop loomed before them, but Helen did not feel up to making small talk.

With a bit of persuading, the adults agreed that the girls could show Ron their favourite shop. As the sun beat down on them and the air was filled with the smell of ice creams and potions ingredients, the corner of her lips began to twitch. Watching Hermione and Ron bicker as they trudged further down the alley – Ron insisting they must have passed it, and Hermione stubbornly marching on – made her giggle slightly. Contently, Helen pushed her glasses back up her nose and sighed. It did not matter where her wand core came from; or even that Voldemort had an identical one. For the first time in her life, Helen had friends, and just perhaps there were even better birthdays in her future.

           

 


	8. Chapter Eight

You all deserve so much better, but I am so thankful for your patience. I hope this was worth the wait. I rushed it a bit as I know how long its been, so there might be a few mistakes which I will correct soon.

* * *

 

            September 1st dawned unusually bright and sunny. Not that Helen noticed; too busy packing and re-packing her suitcase. Despite having gotten the interior of her suitcase enlarged so that it could carry twice as much, there still had not been enough room for all her books. Luckily, Macy the house-elf had made it her duty to pop by each day of August to keep Helen up-to-date on the remodel of her house. Apparently, her ancestral house was in worse shape than expected and Macy had ended up crying the first time she had appeared in Helen’s room. One wall of the house had crumbled in entirely (the ballroom, Macy would later fret to Helen’s astonishment), and almost all the carpets and floorboards needed replacing.

            It was not good, but since she was not going to be living there until Christmas break, Helen was not too bothered that the remodel would be taking longer than anticipated. As September crept closer, Macy had taken it upon herself to help Helen pack. It was her idea to expand the trunk, and thankfully she who refolded Helen’s robes. Originally, Helen had simply used her robes as padding to keep her more delicate books and equipment safe. Macy had scolded her thoroughly, before taking most of the books back to the house where she assured her young charge that they would be safe in the library (her own library!).

The month had blown past in a whirlwind of letters and ice cream. Hermione and Ron had even begun exchanging their own letters – though Ron would often complain half-heartedly to Helen that he was being grilled. Having never been allowed friends before, Helen anxiously hovered between doubt and happiness. Thankfully, happiness often won out and she would forget her insecurities.

Finally, there was simply nothing left for her to pack. She had woken up as the sky bled pink in a panic over where she had put Hedwig’s owl treats. She had collapsed the stand last night and tucked it away. The owl treats Helen had kept out to put in her pocket for the long train journey. Hedwig had not been amused at the ruckus a half-blind Helen had made as she tumbled out of bed. Adrenaline pumping, she had not been able to get back to sleep. Spread-eagled on top of the duvet, Helen had run through everything in her head. The Granger’s were going to pick her up at nine for a quick breakfast at the inn, before heading off to King’s Cross Station. The Weasley’s would meet them on the train. Apparently, there was a greeter waiting between platform’s nine and ten to show muggle families how to get to the train. There had been an extra letter in Hermione’s acceptance package.

Once again dressed proudly in some of her friend’s hand-me-downs, Helen ate breakfast enthusiastically with an equally bubbly Hermione, before saying goodbye to a teary Tom. As Dr Granger took her trunk out to his car, Helen promised Tom that she would say hello to his niece – Hannah, who would be in the same year as them. Fortunately, mid-morning traffic in London was not too bad and they made it to King’s Cross in plenty of time.

Pushing a trolley with her trunk and Hedwig’s cage on top, was a peculiar experience. Most people looked at them oddly as they pushed through the crowds. Helen felt as if her face was on fire. Platforms nine and ten were not hard to find, though the Granger’s were unsure as to how to identify this ‘greeter’. Thankfully, it was not that hard. The crowds around them parted and Helen felt her eyebrows climb up to her hairline. A woman stood beaming by the barrier, a suitcase with the Hogwarts crest by her feet. She looked as if she had gotten dressed in the dark. Wearing a tweed skirt and a neon-pink ruffled shirt, the woman rocked back and forth on her heels. A gaudy brooch glittered from under her chin. Perhaps it would not be so strange, if the woman was not also wearing wellington boots with cartoon frogs on them and what seemed to be a large, polka-dotted bow on the back of her head.

Reaching out with one hand, Helen tugged on Hermione’s cardigan and pointed. Hermione made a strangled sort of noise in the back of her throat. Her parents did not fare much better and spent almost a full minute staring in quiet shock at the women’s eclectic sense of dress. Eventually, Dr Granger cleared his throat and ushered them over to the woman. As they came into view, the woman’s smile split her face.

“Welcome!” she cried. “Muggleborns I take it?”

Dr Granger smiled politely as she and her husband shook the woman’s hand.

“Er, yes. First years.” She said with a gesture to the two girls who were stunned into silence. Helen’s eyebrows were still climbing. Joyfully, the woman clapped her hands together. Picking up her branded suitcase, she absently brushed down her skirt before ushering the Granger’s and Helen further down the platform.

“You must be so excited.” The greeter beamed down at the two girls. Her natural enthusiasm was infectious and as she chattered on inanely, her companions slowly relaxed. Squawking as the trolley wheel stuck, Hedwig untucked her head to glare balefully at Helen. Offering a treat, she grinned breathlessly as Hedwig went back to sleep. Having insisted on getting their own trolley’s, neither were too heavy with only a single trunk. However, Helen’s frail frame meant that her arms trembled with the exertion and her chest burned. Finally, the greeter pulled the small group to a stop by a barrier.

            “Okey-dokey!” the woman chirped, bouncing on her feet; cartoon frogs tumbling across yellow boots.

            “Now, all you need to do is run straight through this barrier here – between platforms nine and ten – and you’ll be able to get onto the platform. Make sure you’ve got everything on the train before it sets off at eleven o’clock!”

            “I’m sorry,” Dr Granger smiled tightly, “but did you say run through the barrier?”

Helen shared her disbelief. From where she was standing, the barrier looked a lot like a very solid, very thick, brick wall. The greeter blinked confusedly at them for a moment before it cleared.

            “Well,” the woman switched her suitcase to her other hand. “Most of the children prefer to run at the barrier – nerves or excitement I can never really tell.”

            She gave a high laugh, and the adults made an odd sort of noise that could have been taken as an agreement. Hermione looked thoroughly unconvinced. Tilting her head from side to side did not help with how hard the barrier looked. Helen watched as her friend set her shoulders and stuck out her chin. Mentally she sighed. Hermione was not going to move unless someone made her. Pushing her glasses up the sweaty bridge of her nose, Helen eyed the greeter nervously. Surely, as a school official, the woman would not want to hurt them. As the Grangers’ huddled together, she swung her trolley around with a small grunt of effort. Lining up perfectly with the barrier, she let out a long breath before tensing her arms. The wheels of her trolley squealed as she began to run, and the Grangers’ all jerked in surprise. Hermione shrieked as Helen rushed past, and just before she hit the barrier, she thought she saw Dr Granger reach out for her in alarm.

            Instead of the crash she had expected, Helen was swamped in darkness. For a brief second, she wondered if she had been knocked out before light flooded her eyes and made her squint. A bright red steam engine swam before her eyes. A brass plaque along its lacquered side bore the name _Hogwarts Express_. It was real. Dazed, Helen was taken by surprise as something slammed into her from behind. Almost thrown over the front of her trolley, it took her several seconds to recognise the arms squeezing the breath from her.

Having seen her first friend run at a brick wall had sent Hermione into an anxious frenzy. While her parents freaked out behind her, she had wasted no time in throwing herself at the barrier after her smaller friend. Her parents had not been far behind; pushing her abandoned trolley. So occupied in making sure Helen was safe, Hermione did not register the bustling crowds around them. Trolley’s rattled along the platform; jostling squawking pets and excited children alike. Families clumped together, heaving trunks and bags through the crowds.

“Hel!” Hermione gasped, frantically patting down her friend for injuries. “You could have been hurt!”

“I think the only danger round here is you Hermione.” Helen wheezed. Stepping back in embarrassment, the young black girl watched as Helen rubbed where her ribs had collided with the handlebar. Hedwig shrieked and flapped her wings disgruntledly; having been rudely awoken. Waving off her friends’ apologies, Helen fed another treat to quiet her owl. With Hedwig settled once again – though staring beadily at them – the small group pushed their way through the crowd. The crowds began to thin near the back of the train until only a few people were mingling along the platform.

Helping the girls into an empty compartment, Doctor Granger wiped his forehead. Their trunks were tucked neatly into the spaces beneath the seats, and the girls bouncing excitedly near the window.

“Well then,” he started, gaining everyone’s attention. “I guess you’re all sorted.”

A stilted sort of silence descended over the compartment. Hermione’s face slipped into a worried frown as she turned to her parents. On their part, Robert and Jean tried to smile bravely as their daughter flung herself at them. Feeling as if she was intruding on a private moment, Helen hovered awkwardly at the window. Outside, the platform was beginning to fill up. Friends greeted each other excitedly and families kissed their loved one’s goodbye for the term. Would her parents have wanted to see her off to Hogwarts? Would they have cried as they said goodbye? Despondent, Helen watched as a mother straightened her child’s jacket, and a strange sort of longing gripped her and made her eyes sting.

Behind her, the Granger’s separated and Jean cleared her throat. Turning back around, Helen politely ignored as Hermione wiped at her eyes. Unable to look at anyone, Helen froze as arms swept around her in a hug. Doctor Granger squeezed her tightly.

“Now you be good this term dear,” Jean smiled shakily. “And if you need anything, you girls just send Hedwig to us, alright?”

Helen nodded, her vision blurring as Doctor Granger replaced his wife and ruffled her hair.

“Remember, grades are important, but having fun is better.” He winked at the girls before he and Jean left the train. Numb, Helen fell into the seat by the window. Hermione had plastered herself to the window; eyes scanning relentlessly for any last glimpse of her parents. However, the platform had become too busy to see properly and she sat back dissatisfied. Checking her watch, Hermione frowned:

“It’s almost quarter-to-eleven. Do you think the Weasley’s are here yet?”

Helen hummed, grateful for the distraction.

“They might just be at the other end of the platform.” She suggested. “Ron knew we’d be here first, so he’ll come looking.”

Hermione’s frown cleared somewhat, but Helen caught her checking her watch six more times. Suddenly, the train lurched and somewhere near the front of the train, a whistle blew. People raced down the corridor outside their compartment, and having plastered themselves to the window, the girls watched as people hung out of them to wave goodbye. Ignoring Hermione’s protest, Helen tugged open their window and stood on the seat. Up on her tiptoes, she shoved her hand out of the small slot to wave frantically. Hesitating for a moment, eventually Hermione joined her friend. The two friends continued to flap frantically until the train had cleared the station.

Flopping back on to the seat, Helen grinned. An anxious sort of excitement was bubbling within her. Stretching her arms out, she laid down on the seat and tried to touch each wall. She fell short. Hermione had dug out a book, and after petting a sleepy Hedwig, opened it with a thud.

“Did you know that your grandfather was a great potioneer?” she asked without looking up. Helen scrunched up her nose. A vague image of one of the business papers the solicitors had given her wavered in her mind.

“I think so,” she said slowly. “I think he had a company or something.”

Hermione hummed noncommittally and turned the page. For a while, the only sound in the compartment was the slow clink and release of the carriage wheels: shh-tch, shh-tch, shh-tch. Suddenly one of the shadows in the corridor bumped into the door before it slid open. A rather red-faced and irritated Ron Weasley peered at them before expelling a great sigh of relief.

“Finally!” he exclaimed and proceeded to haul his trunk inside. Helen rolled over to help. Thankfully, Hedwig slept through the noise as Ron struggled to shove his trunk in beside theirs. Sweaty but grinning, he took back the cage that Helen handed him.

“Where were you?” Hermione asked, book laid neatly beside her. Ron ignored her as he opened the cage in his lap. A rather fat, brown-grey rat sat snoozing in his outstretched grasp.

“Late,” he said absently, squinting at the rat. “Floo was down at the ministry, so dad had to take the car. We flooed, then walked the rest of the way.”

“Who’s that?” Helen asked abruptly, nodding her head at the rat. Ron blinked at her, startled.

“Oh, this is Scabbers.” He gestured towards the girls with the sleeping rat still in his hand. Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust. Picking her book back up, she buried her head once more between its pages.

“He used to be Percy’s,” Ron continued. “But he got an owl for making prefect, so now he’s mine. He can’t do anything like Hedwig though.”

Carefully, Ron placed Scabbers in his lap. As if struck by lightning, his gaze jerked up suspiciously.

“Hedwig won’t like, eat him, will she?” he asked slowly. A hand curled protectively over his raggedy rat. Helen’s brow furrowed and she too glanced at her innocuously sleeping owl.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Bit too big for her, I think. She prefers mice.”

Ron did not look reassured, but he eventually settled back into his seat. Outside, people laughed and shouted as they raced up and down the corridor. The thudding of their footsteps almost masking the train engine. Their conversation continued idly as they tried to mask their nerves. Every now and then, Hermione would look up from her book to chip in.

Eventually, there was a knock at the compartment door, and they all looked up in surprise. The door rolled back to reveal a smiling elderly witch pushing a food trolley.

“Anything from the trolley dears?” she asked. It was at that moment that Helen’s stomach rumbled. Unlike her friends, who were pulling out packed lunches, Helen had no food. Visions of Mars Bars danced in her mind and she jumped up eagerly. However, there were no Mars Bars. In fact, there were no recognisable brands at all in the witch’s trolley. Liquorice wands, chocolate frogs, pumpkin pasties – there were lots of those, but nothing Helen knew.

“No thanks,” Ron smiled awkwardly, and held up his rather squashed looking sandwiches. Hermione also politely declined.

“She always forgets I don’t like corned beef.” Ron sighed miserably to himself. It was obvious he had not meant for anyone to overhear as he slowly unfolded the waxed paper. Helen looked back at her friends. As the daughter of dentists, Hermione’s lunch was very practical with possibly the sweetest thing being the small pack of raisins. Ron looked almost green as he faced his sandwiches. Determinedly, Helen turned back to the trolley witch:

“We’ll have some of everything.”

 

*    *    *

 

 

It had not taken much convincing to get Ron to help himself to the small pile Helen had bought. Hermione was a bit more hesitant but eventually she did swipe a chocolate frog. The two girls got a fright when she opened it and the frog hopped out and escaped through the open window. Ron almost choked he laughed so hard. The corned beef sandwiches lay forgotten.

Scabbers had eventually woken up and was cowering in an empty pasty wrapper. Picking up a colourful box, Helen eyed it thoughtfully.

“ _Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans_ ,” she read aloud. “They don’t really mean every flavour, do they?”

The chocolate frog incident was fresh in her mind, and judging by Hermione’s suspicious glare, so was she. Gingerly, Helen opened the box and peered inside. Innocent-seeming jellybeans in every colour gazed back at her.

“Course they do.” Ron said cheerfully through a mouthful of pumpkin pasty. Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“George reckons he got a bogey-flavoured one once.”

Helen immediately offered the box out to the others. Hermione refused, but Ron took one without thought. Fascinated, the girls watched as his face twisted as he chewed.

“Ugh,” he swallowed and grimaced. “See – sprouts.”

The girls watched as he happily went back to eating his pasty.

“What?” he asked. “You afraid or something?”

Hermione bristled instantly. Victoriously, Ron grinned. Tossing her bushy hair back, she shoved her hand into the box and pulled out a vivid green jellybean. Helen followed suit and popped a brown-black jellybean into her mouth. Rich, warm gravy burst and coated her tongue. It was not bad, Helen thought, just unexpected.

“Grass.” Hermione shrugged in smug relief and settled back into her seat. It was at that moment that the compartment door slid open once more. This time however, it was not the trolley witch. Three boys entered their compartment. Flanked on either side by large, gorilla-boys with mean faces, was Draco Malfoy. He seemed even paler and smaller than usual due to his companions. Grey eyes roved slowly over the compartment and his lip curled.

“So, its true then.” Malfoy said. “You’re Helen Potter.”

Helen did not like the way he dismissed her friends, but she nodded politely.

“Yes, we’ve met before Heir Malfoy.” She said, trying to discretely brush the crumbs from her lap. To her right, Ron had gone so still Helen was half-worried he had turned to stone. Hermione had politely closed her book in her lap to listen. Two pink spots appeared high on Malfoy’s cheekbones.

“I remember,” he snapped before visibly reining it back in. “This is Crabbe and Goyle. Our families have been friends for generations.”

Malfoy waved a lazy hand at his companions. Beside her, Ron snorted. Eyes sharpening, Malfoy’s lip pulled back into a sneer.

“No need to ask who you are – second-hand robes and red hair? You must be a Weasley. My father always said they had more children than sense.” Malfoy laughed cruelly and his companions grunted along. Helen had gone very still. Seeming not to notice the tense atmosphere he had created, Malfoy continued to sneer at her friends.

“You’ll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others Potter,” Malfoy stuck his pointed chin into the air. “I can help you there.”

For several seconds, Helen looked at the pale hand offered to her. Calmly, she looked up.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself thanks.”

The pink spots that had just to fade came back with a viciousness. Malfoy lowered his hand. Grey eyes sharpened on her, but Helen knew how to deal with this sort of superiority act. He may think he was the biggest bully around, but Malfoy had nothing on Dudley.

“I would be careful if I was you Potter,” he said slowly, eyes glittering. “Or you might just end up like mummy and daddy. They didn’t know what was good for them either.”

Helen stood so abruptly that she knocked into the table; dislodging their food. Immediately, Ron and Hermione were at her side. Hermione raised her book like a battle-axe. A strange sort of buzzing was building in the back of Helen’s skull.

“Take that back.” Ron warned; his fists curled at his sides. Malfoy laughed and looked at his goons disbelievingly.

“What?” he jeered. “Or you’ll make us?”

The boy on his left, Goyle, gave a dumb laugh and reached forwards to take something from their pile of sweets.  On either side of her, Ron and Hermione stepped forwards, but they had done nothing more when Goyle gave a great howl of pain. Everyone stepped back in shock as Goyle stumbled and raised his hand. Scabbers, who had been snuffling around their rubbish, had sunk his sharp little teeth into the meaty flesh of Goyle’s palm. Goyle shook his hand furiously and sent Scabbers flying across the compartment. Sending one more scathing look in their direction, Malfoy fled. The door slammed shut as the last of them left.

Breathing heavily, Helen sank into a seat. She did not see as Ron and Hermione began to tidy up around her. Eventually the buzzing in her skull slowed and settled in her bones. Exhaling in a great huff, Helen slumped backwards. Ron had managed to find Scabbers tucked beneath a wrapper.

“He went back to sleep.” He said disbelievingly as he examined the snoozing rat. Across from them, Hermione had tucked herself into the corner by the window almost defensively.

“I can’t believe them.” She shook her great mane of hair. Crossing his arms, Ron scowled.

“My dad says all Malfoy’s are bad news – wait, did you say you’ve met him before?” Ron exclaimed in horror as he turned to Helen. Quickly, she explained how she had bumped into the Malfoy’s at Diagon Alley.

“Good thing you interrupted when you did Hermione.” Ron grunted. Hermione looked almost reluctantly pleased.

“I bet you they’re all in Slytherin.” Ron sneered in an oddly familiar way that made Helen’s stomach lurch.

“Why?” she blurted out, her heart pounding oddly. Blinking at her, Ron frowned.

“Well you know,” he shrugged. “Slytherin’s are evil.”

Relief flooded through Helen so fast that she laughed. Though Hermione did not laugh, she also looked at Ron peculiarly. For his part, Ron seemed rather confounded and half-insulted. Almost immediately, Helen felt guilty and scrunched her shoulders up to her ears.

“Says who?” Hermione asked; her fingers twitching as if she wanted to flick through a book. Seeming rather uncomfortable now, Ron shuffled in his seat.

“Well, everyone knows.” He coughed. “Gryffindor for the brave, Ravenclaw is for the smart people, Slytherin is evil, and Hufflepuff for the others.”

Crossing his arms triumphantly, Ron grinned broadly. The girls were thoroughly unimpressed.

“That’s not what _Hogwarts: A History_ says.” Hermione said decisively. That was not how Helen remembered it either.

“Gryffindor for the brave, Ravenclaw values learning, Slytherin is about ambition, and Hufflepuff for the loyal.” Helen recited. She had been repeating those words in her head since she got her acceptance letter. On nights she could not sleep, Helen had even taken notes on the pros and cons of each house. Ron waved a hand dismissively.

“Yeah okay, but everyone knows,” he emphasised by raising his eyebrows seriously. “Slytherin’s are evil, and Hufflepuff is just for the people none of the other houses want.”

Ron snickered, much to Hermione’s obvious disapproval. Rolling her eyes, she pulled her book closer and opened it in her lap. Helen had gone quiet. Twisting her hands in her lap, she gathered her courage. Not lifting her eyes from the ground, she said quietly into the silence:

“I want to be in Hufflepuff.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. The compartment was silent for a few minutes, and Helen could have sworn she heard Ron’s jaw click as it swung shut. Swallowing several times, he shifted; his face now red in embarrassment. Not noticing the now awkward atmosphere, Hermione leant forwards in interest.

“Really?” she asked. “What made you think Hufflepuff? I’ve researched all the houses and it is appealing, but I think I’d prefer Gryffindor or maybe Ravenclaw.”

Helen shrugged, feeling somewhat looser as her shoulders unknotted.

“I guess I like the idea that it seems calmer.” She pushed her glasses up her nose, trying to ignore her pensive audience. “The other houses kinda sound like they’re always fighting to be the best, and I – I just want to be me.”

Hermione hummed contemplatively and sat back to stare out of the window. Feeling hot under the collar, Helen refused to meet anyone’s gaze and curled up on the seat. The compartment was silent for a long time when a voice crackled through the air.

“ _We will shortly be arriving at Hogsmeade Station, please leave all belongings on the train. They will be collected and delivered to your dormitories. The train will be arriving at Hogsmeade Station in one hour.”_

Nerves fluttered in her stomach as she looked upwards instinctively. Collectively, they decided to change into their school robes. Taking turns to guard the compartment, they were quickly ready. Helen had never had such well-fitting clothes before. The black robes were heavier than her summer ones and seemed to somehow make her look even smaller. Hermione’s were just as shiny and new, unlike Ron’s whose were several inches too short so you could see the tops of his shoes. Hermione bumbled around for a while – brushing away imaginary dust and sorting her bags. It got so bad that she even tried to clean Ron up.

“Gerrof Hermione!” he batted away her searching hands. His face was red with embarrassment and he glared half-heartedly at Helen who was giggling silently.

“You have dirt on your nose Ron.” Hermione said crossly as she reached to rub it off. Suddenly the train jerked and slowed to a stop. Turning to quint into the dark, Helen breathed:

“We’re here.”

Peering out of the gloom of the night, they could just see a sign saying _Hogsmeade Station_ illuminated by orange gas lamps. Helen pushed her glasses up her sweaty nose. Together, they got off the train.

 

 

*    *    *

 

 

Hogwarts was a castle. Of course, Helen knew that objectively, but seeing it loom above her, glittering beneath a starlit sky was something else entirely. Not the cold bite of the air nor the soft splash of water could distract her. They had been greeted off the train by a giant of man who seemed to be made of hair and muscle by the name of Hagrid. He had guided all the first-year students to a fleet of small boats that crossed the lake beneath Hogwarts. The boats were obviously magic as they glided across the black water silently and neither pulled nor pushed by anything except themselves. Beside her, Hermione was reciting every fact she knew to another boy that had joined them.

Neville Longbottom had seemed particularly distressed as the other boats quickly filled up. It turned out that Neville had somehow misplaced his toad. Hearing this, Ron had anxiously patted the pocket in which Scabbers was happily snoozing. Despite their collective nerves, no one could tear their eyes away from the view. Helen’s heart thudded in her chest and she desperately wanted to reach the shore, and yet also leave. It was an odd feeling – being so torn in opposite directions. Eventually though, they docked in a small boathouse.

They trudged across the dark grounds, shivering. Only the castle and Hagrid’s bobbing lantern cast any light and they all hurried to catch up to the giant’s stride. Ron and Hermione flanked her as they went – Helen’s poor health proving once again to be her downfall. Passing through a courtyard, Hagrid waved them all to wait to one side and raised a large fist. He knocked three times on the large double doors.


End file.
